


Eye of the Beholder

by PunJedi



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Artist Keith (Voltron), Blind Character, Blind Keith, Coran is the principal, Deaf Character, Female pronouns for Pidge, Fluff, M/M, Singer Lance, background shallura - Freeform, deaf lance, klance, shiro is a teacher, so is allura
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-10-28 21:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10839543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunJedi/pseuds/PunJedi
Summary: In which1. Keith is blind, Lance is deaf2. One can sing, one can draw3. Communication is difficult4. Hunk is a food god5. Shiro and Allura are teachers6. High school is hard7. Making a living is harder8. But with friends, it's possible





	1. Fall on Deaf Ears

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again!  
> This fic is actually going to have decently long chapters (not anything _really_ long, but an improvement over the very short chapters of my first fic). It is, in fact, already longer than The Echo of Your Words (in the document I'm using to type this, not right here), and the plot is barely started, so this will be _considerably_ longer.  
>  I'm reasonably pleased with this so far, so I expect it will be updated fairly quickly. But there's still school and procrastination to fight it out with. I can't promise anything, but I certainly hope I'll manage to update it often.  
> Good luck, and feel free to comment any suggestions!

Being flicked off first thing in the morning was truly a great way to start the day. Naturally, that’s how Lance _always_ started his days. Because Idiots Uno, Dos, and Tres knew approximately one phrase in sign language, the phrase being “f off.” They never seemed to tire of it, and since they couldn’t very well use any verbal insults, the middle finger required the least brain cells to accomplish. And they sure didn’t have any to spare.

Lance walked past them, as usual, waving and smiling enthusiastically, signing quickly. As usual, they laughed, making fun of the idiot deaf guy who didn’t even realize when he was being insulted. And as usual, they didn’t even realize that Lance had been signing “you’re all a bunch of illiterate hogs, and if you wanted to take a mud bath and had some dirt and water you wouldn’t know what to do,” or any of the inventive insults he employed daily. It was his way of fitting creative writing into his everyday schedule; got to keep it educational, after all.

Speaking of school, the quickest route there was past Uno, Dos, and Tres, hence his ASL insult routine. He always left for school as late as possible. When he got there, it was just levels upon levels of being picked on in different ways. Most of the torment came from his peers, but some came from his teachers, and all of it was enough to make him want to teach the administration what “I’m out of here, losers” was in ASL. Too bad his mom would kill him if he dropped out, and no way was he bringing his problems home. They had enough issues as it was without him complaining about being bullied.

He was just walking up the steps to the school when everyone around him started moving quickly, breaking apart their little clusters and hightailing it to class. The warning bell must have rung. _Crap._ His first period wasn’t in the very back of the school, but he was going to have to move very quickly if he wanted to get there in 45 seconds. He started running, trying to avoid bumping into people who were also racing to get to class on time.

Lance was about to make his final dash for his first period, now only a couple of doors away, when he slammed straight into something. All the air rushed out of him as he struggled to keep his balance, and he turned back to the kid, ready to make a hasty apology through a mix of apologetic smiles and rough signing.  
All of the air rushed out of him again, for an entirely different reason.

It was a guy, a couple inches shorter than he was. He was totally emo looking, with glossy dark hair that fell over his indigo eyes and fingerless black gloves. He was wearing a red cropped jacket, despite the fact it wasn’t particularly cold out, and dark gray jeans. He had a single-strap backpack slung over his shoulder, and there was a sketchbook and pens strewn on the ground from when they had collided.

For once, Lance was glad he wasn’t blind instead of deaf, because then he wouldn’t be able to see this dude.

Lance crouched down and started picking up the markers and papers. Eh, who cared if he was late. It would just be “oh, the deaf kid missed the bells again, whatever,” as always. His first period teacher might have hated him like he had personally offended each and every member of their family, but it would just be another tardy in a long series of reasons he was so freaking done with school. 

As he glanced down at some of the sketches, he realized the kid was more talented than he looked like he’d be. From his appearance, he seemed like he should be ditching school to go to some motorbike rally. From his drawings, it was evident he was a gifted art student. 

Lance stood up, clutching the supplies, and held them out for the boy to take. Instead, the kid was looking around, not quite focusing in on Lance, as if slightly confused. Lance gave him a thumbs-up, pointing to the drawings. _These are really good!_ He mouthed, smiling. The boy just kept looking around, never zeroing in on Lance, as if Lance was invisible.

Or as if the boy was blind.

_Oh._

_Oh my freaking quiznak._

This boy, this wonderful boy who Lance had never even seen before but who had a talent for drawing beautiful things and was pretty dang good-looking himself, was _blind._ So he couldn’t see Lance’s signing, or mouthing, and Lance couldn’t speak to communicate. They were screwed from the first second they met.

Not that _they_ were anything to be screwed in the first place, though. They were just two random “disabled” kids who happened to bump into each other. Nothing special. Nothing important. They’d soon reach a rough understanding and move on, and never see each other again. No problem. Sounded good to Lance.

But first, he had to give the boy back his art and get to class on time.

As he tuned back into the regular world, he saw that the boy was walking away, seemingly completely oblivious to Lance’s presence. He wanted to yell “Hey! I have your art! Come back!” but, as usual, he couldn’t. Talking… talking was too painful. Feeling his vocal cords moving and not being able to hear what came out on a minute to minute basis was pure torture.

He was just about to run for the boy, tap him on the shoulder and shove the sketchbook into his hands, when he saw his first period teacher out of the corner of his eye. Mr. Sendak was standing in front of the open door, arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently. When he saw Lance looking, he pointed at him, then at the ground. Lance glanced over his shoulder at the blind boy, who was rapidly getting further and further away, then at the art in his hands, then at his scowling teacher.

Finally, he hung his head and walked to the door, ready to endure the humiliating experience that was economics class.


	2. Flying Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which  
> 1\. Italian food is the best food  
> 2\. Especially when Hunk makes it  
> 3\. Keith underestimates himself  
> 4\. And makes a fan  
> 5\. Shiro draws a cat

Keith had no clue what had happened earlier this morning, before first period, and he had hated it. He had been in the dark, and absolutely despised it.

He knew some kid had ran into him, and that he had dropped his art supplies. But the kid hadn’t said anything, and Keith wasn’t sure if he had just been standing there, silent and unhelpful, staring at the helpless blind kid, or if he had ran off as soon as it had happened. The bell did ring only seconds after, though, so maybe that was it, and the kid just didn’t want to be late. But Keith had shuffled around a little bit, kicking his feet, and he hadn’t stumbled across his sketchbook. Maybe the kid had stolen it. Maybe it was still there, and he just hadn’t been able to find it. It looked like Keith would never know, and probably never see his sketchbook again.

That was total crap, but it was okay. It was almost lunch, and if he explained what had happened he was sure his art teacher would be able to spare an extra book. He always had more supplies than anyone could possibly ever know what to do with, after all. He was a cool guy, always really supportive, and he was super informal. He went by Shiro, not Mr. anything, or even his real first name. Just Shiro, and he was always willing to help Keith out.

When the bell rang, dismissing him from the mind-shattering dullness of calculus, a class made even worse by the fact that he was a verbal learner, obviously, and his teacher was a visual teacher, Keith bolted out of the room. As a senior at Kaltenecker High, he’d had four years to adjust himself to the campus. He could get pretty much anywhere he wanted to go by sticking close to the walls and every so often brushing his fingers by the Braille next to the doors. People tended to steer clear of him anyway, with the intense “don’t talk to me, don’t walk with me, don’t make social contact whatsoever” vibe he gave off constantly, so he didn’t bump into people a whole lot.

_Except for that dope that ran into me this morning._

Keith tried to push whoever it was out of his mind. Just another kid taking advantage of the blind guy, probably. Wasn't everybody, in this dumb school? From the dweebs who cussed at him every morning, because using more visual insults would've been pointless, to the teachers who always acted like he had a brain disorder along with his blindness. Just because he couldn't see didn't mean he didn't understand the material. Of course, some of it he just naturally blanked on, like calc, but that wasn't because his not being able to see was such a major impediment; it was because he sucked at math.

Ah well. There was at least one thing he did like, one thing he _didn't_ suck at, even though he wouldn't have been able to tell even if he did. It's possible all his work looked like crap and no one had the heart to tell him, but Keith didn't think that. Shiro’s compliments were always genuine, accompanied with tips to strengthen his talent.  
Naturally, of course, he didn't actually _have_ art class. He had music theory instead, because the management was like “oh, he’s blind, I’m sure he can hear great,” and ignored his request for art instead, because who gave a blind kid the vision-based class? But he had gone to Shiro, the art teacher, during his lunch period and begged to be allowed to come in and paint. Thank God he had said yes; Keith couldn't afford art supplies of his own, and without art supplies he was _not_ going to be able to make a living. He had tried to get a part-time job, but it all went south almost immediately. He was lucky his roommate had supported him for so long. He really didn't deserve it, but with his family gone… he had no other option, what with not being able to keep a job and all.

But Shiro had said yes, and now he could pay his own share of the rent on his apartment. Shiro was like the father he had never had, or maybe the older brother. Whatever he was, Keith was just glad to be heading over to the art room.

Luckily, he never had to go through the lunch line; his roommate always insisted on packing their lunches. At first it embarrassed Keith, made him feel like a 10-year-old, but he came to realize that if Hunk was willing to cook for him every meal, he was a very lucky person. No matter what scraps and leftovers Hunk had to work with, it always turned into a culinary masterpiece. He always shared with Shiro, a sort of weird exchange in which Keith was really giving nothing; it was Shiro’s art supplies and time and Hunk’s food, Keith was just the middleman who benefited both ways. It killed him that he couldn't offer anything useful, wanted more than anything that he didn't have to depend on people like he did. But at least if he had to be dependent on others, he had people like Shiro and Hunk, who made him feel important and needed.  
Keith stopped right in front of the art room door, opened it and stepped in. The route to the art room was one he had truly memorized; he never had any issues getting to it. Now his calculus class, on the other hand… sometimes he got turned around on his way _there._

“Hey, Keith!” came Shiro’s voice from the back of the room. “What’d Hunk cook up today?”

“Uh, I don't know. Last night we had baked spaghetti with breadsticks, so it might be leftovers.” Keith said, walking toward the sound of Shiro’s voice. “Whatcha working on today?”

“I’m working on a dot painting of my cat, but I could use your eye for detail.” Keith couldn't tell for sure, but he figured Shiro was probably grinning evilly. 

“Ha ha. You're very funny, Shiro. Why you don't go register some mute people for a singing competition?”

“Nah, making fun of you is a better use of my time.” Keith stuck out his tongue in Shiro’s direction. “But seriously, I could use your opinion. You may be blind but you're better than most of my actual students.”

“Yeah, well, most of your actual students are hypocritical idiots who couldn't tell the ends of a pencil apart from each other.”

“Now, Keith, that's not nice. I am a teacher, after all. Am I going to have to give you a lunch detention?”

“Like what I do everyday in here?”

“Fair enough. Now get over here, and once you’ve forked over your lunch and helped me with my cat, you can do your own thing. I have your painting in the back, and the paints are where they always are.”

Keith managed to make his way toward the back of the room, to where the easels were set up. Luckily Shiro never changed the layout of his room; Keith suspected it was at least in part because of him, but regardless he appreciated it. This was the one room in the entire school that he felt absolutely confident in. He swore his economics teacher changed the layout of the room everyday just to spite him. But Shiro had even added Braille to all of his signs and labels, not that any of his actual students even noticed. But Keith did, and he was grateful.

Shiro gently tapped his arm, and guided his hand to the edge of his canvas. “Is it dry?” Keith asked.

“Yeah,” Shiro replied. “Go for it.”

Keith ran his long fingers lightly over the canvas, concentrating on forming the picture of the groupings of shallow bumps in his mind. With Shiro occasionally chiming in with comments like “That's it's eye” and “There's where the back leg starts,” Keith quickly assembled an image of the painting, minus color. He started making suggestions, such as “The right ear is bent slightly irregularly” and “The tail is thicker than normal at the tip,” and soon they were both chowing down on Hunk’s leftover spaghetti, which still somehow tasted just as good as when it was fresh.

Keith felt Shiro poke him with a breadstick. “You know,” he said through a mouthful of food, “you should try getting your art further out into the world than just selling them on Etsy to pay your rent. You could really make it.”

“Yeah, Shiro. I know. You've told me that before. But no matter how well I did, I would just be known as the blind painter, and I don't want that. Plus, I can't be _that_ good. I'm a blind high school student, who doesn't even take official art classes. I can't _do_ stuff like that.”

“Come on, Keith. I'm an art _teacher._ My job is recognizing and nurturing talent. Even though you lost your sight, you're still one of the most gifted kids I’ve ever taught. You just don't give yourself enough credit.” 

Keith stood up abruptly, his face stony and blank eyes blazing. “No, Shiro. You give me _too much_ credit. I remind you of _you,_ when you were younger. But I’m _not._ I'm the blind, socially inept, friendless version of the younger you. So stop trying to encourage me to be something I’m _not.”_

He could practically feel Shiro’s eyes boring into him as he stalked into the back room, feeling for his painting on the rack. Whenever he started a painting, in the bottom right corner he would sign his name in clear glue. It served as his own kind of Braille to correctly identify which was his, but also so he knew which side was up.

The painting was a silhouette of palm trees against a beachside sunset, or so it was supposed to be. Of course he couldn’t tell what it actually looked like, but according to Shiro it was going well and he hadn’t accidentally managed to put a huge neon green smear in the middle of it, so that was good. Keith brought it out to one of the easels and clamped it on, his nimble fingers working from memory and touch alone. He went over to the paint racks, and using the Braille, managed to find the colors he was using and placed them at his station. He got some brushes and was just about to start when a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Shiro said, sounding subdued. There was a creak as the door opened, but whoever it was didn’t say anything as they walked in. “What’s your name?”

There was no response. “Oh,” Shiro replied. “I’m sorry, I don’t know sign language. Can you write it down instead?” 

_Oh,_ Keith thought. _They’re deaf, and mute as well._ So much for communicating ever with this kid, then. If he couldn’t speak, and Keith couldn’t see, there was no way they were ever going to get a message across.

_Like this morning…_

“Uh, Keith. This kid, he says his name’s Lance, says he ran into you this morning and you dropped your sketchbook, but he couldn’t manage to get it back to you? So he brought it here to see if I knew whose it was.”

Keith couldn’t believe it. This kid actually brought his sketchbook back, instead of stealing it or leaving it strewn on the sidewalk? All of his sketches and drawings _weren’t_ lost to him, and he didn’t have to beg Shiro for new pens.

Of course, the kid who was actually sort of nice to him he naturally was going to have a difficult time communicating with, just because of their disabilities. That figured, but Keith was willing to put that disappointment aside long enough to be glad that he had his sketchbook back. He grabbed a stray sheet of paper and a pen and scrawled _Thank you_ on it. He felt the boy take it from him and read it, and scratch something on it.

“He says ‘you’re welcome,’” Shiro relayed. “He also says that your sketches are really good, and he asked if the palm tree painting was yours.”

Keith nodded in the direction he thought Lance was. He heard the paper being slid to him, and he wrote _Thanks, and yeah, the palm trees are mine. I have a few more things in the back if you want to see them._

“He says sure,” said Shiro. “Do you want me to get them?”

“Nah, Shiro,” Keith replied. “I can do it. You just keep working on your cat’s portrait and eating breadsticks.”

“Okay, will do. Have fun showing your new fan around.” Shiro said, chuckling. Keith made a face at him, then turned around to where he estimated Lance was. He made a beckoning motion and walked to the back of the room. He heard the other boy’s footsteps behind him.

So, overall, Keith had gotten his sketchbook back, eaten home cooked spaghetti, and potentially made a new friend (which would put him at a grand total of three). Not too shabby for a morning’s work.

Maybe today wasn’t going to be such a god-awful day after all.


	3. Never Hear the End of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which  
> 1\. Breadsticks are eaten  
> 2\. Allura is a blackmailer  
> 3\. Art is shared  
> 4\. Lance sleeps in class  
> 5\. And therefore has to go to a concert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crow, this story has really gotten a positive reaction, and I just have to say I'm grateful for any and all support given. I love writing, and posting it on here for the enjoyment of other readers and writers is just a very cool experience.  
> So, I'd just like to say thanks, and I hope you like this latest chapter!

The way the boy, Keith, maneuvered around the art room with such confidence surprised Lance, though he wasn’t sure why it did. The kid obviously spent serious time in there, coming in during his lunch period and all, sharing food with the teacher, calling him by his name.

Also, you know, his incredible talent kind of hinted at that a little bit.

Lance had taken the liberty of paging through his sketchbook… he was just looking for Keith’s name, naturally, but he couldn’t help but look at some of the art. Even though it was clear the guy was completely and utterly blind, he still had an artist’s touch that he had apparently not lost with his sight. There were beautiful abstracts and surrealism and still lifes, all housed in one old, beat up sketchbook that it was obvious Keith valued highly. Lance could see why. All that art _had_ to be valuable.

Lance was just glad he’d found the kid; if he hadn’t, he was going to have felt guilty for a very long time. It would have been like robbing the blind, because that’s basically what it was. Maybe inadvertent robbing, but still robbing.

Keith led him to the back of the room. Unfortunately, since his head was turned away, he couldn’t tell if he was explaining anything. Lance _could_ read lips, he just preferred ASL. It was easier, especially since the way people’s mouths moved wasn’t as consistent as an actual language.

Keith reached the door to the back room, opened it, and led Lance inside. He actually gasped as he walked in, that’s how beautiful the room was.

The walls were plastered with art in all shapes and styles. There were charcoals, oil paintings, watercolors, what looked like a few drawings done in Crayola marker, and collages. There were drawings done solely in graphite pencil, some in only pen, and some that looked like they tried to fit as many mediums in the piece as they could. There were sculptures on shelves, some half finished, some painted and glossy. It was like the abstract concept of art had had a stomach flu and thrown up all over this room, but in a way that somehow looked exquisite.

He looked over at Keith to see his reaction, because no matter how many times you came in here, you had to be taken aback by its beauty. But when Lance saw him walking sightlessly toward the racks of paintings in the back, slightly off course and head tilted slightly the wrong way, he realized the plain, simple truth: Keith couldn’t see _any_ of this. Not a single painting. Not even the ones he did _himself_.

And it broke Lance’s heart.

He tried not to think of it as he walked to the back, because if he thought about this beautiful boy unable to see his own beautiful creations, he was going to start crying, and Keith would surely hear that. There was no way he’d appreciate the pity, either; Lance _hated_ it when anyone cried over his lack of hearing, saying sorry and gushing over how he was so gifted anyways and how sad it was, how sad they were over his loss. He wouldn't do that to Keith, not when he had to be one of the few people who understood him.

Lance choked back a laugh. He’d barely met the guy, not even had a proper conversation, and already he was saying that he was one of the few people who understood Keith. But he was pretty sure he _did_ understand him, and not many others did. The art teacher–Shiro?–he seemed close to Keith. He probably sympathized and cared for Keith, but even he couldn't imagine the sort of pain that would come with doing what you love but not being able to experience it fully.

And Lance could. Oh boy, he could.

Just as he was about to attempt to wrench his mind away from _that_ tangent of thought, Keith pulled out a painting. It was of the sky, tinted gray with rain drops falling, a faint rainbow in the background. It was incredibly realistic, like he had drawn it while looking out a window into a storm. Except Keith wouldn't have been able to look out at a storm, yet it was just as lifelike as the other realism drawings on the walls, and those drawn by students with sight. It was truly a work of art, and it took Lance’s breath away.

Keith took out more paintings, laying them on the table, somehow keeping them from overlapping so much that they were hidden behind each other. An elephant, a tree, abstract cubes, lions, a man that looked Shiro, a bulky kid with dark hair and a bandana wrapped around his forehead. Each was exquisite, and each could rival any of the paintings hanging on the walls.

Finally Keith stopped pulling them out and turned to Lance. He seemed nervous, tugging on the end of his sleeve and fidgeting, looking down at the ground. He looked like he was ready for Lance to start ripping them up and throwing them in the trash, but Lance wanted more than anything to be able to show him what he thought of them. On an impulse, Lance reached out and grabbed Keith’s wrist. The other boy flinched, trying to pull away, but Lance pried it open as gently as he could and began tracing into it.

 _Beautiful_ , he wrote. _Seriously._

Keith’s face was still as he concentrated on the letters and forming them into words. Then he slowly looked up at Lance, surprisingly close in guessing his position. A smile spread across his face, a nervous, sort of shy smile, but it was one of the nicest things Lance had ever seen. Lance smiled too, even though he knew Keith couldn’t see it.

 _Really?_ Keith mouthed.

Lance took Keith’s hand in his and squeezed it. _Yeah_ , he traced. _Really_. Keith squeezed his hand back, his smile more confident, more sure. It suited him.

Keith suddenly looked toward the door, and said something. Probably replying to Shiro, Lance guessed. Keith started putting his paintings back on the rack, handling each one with extreme care and flawlessly finding their place on the shelf. When he was done, he motioned to Lance. _Come on,_ he mouthed, leading him out of the back room.

Shiro was waiting for them, holding what looked like a breadstick out to Lance. _Want something to eat?_ he mouthed. Lance shrugged, but Keith nodded at him to take it; Shiro must have said it aloud, not merely mouthed it. He reached out and took the bread. Taste was one of the four senses he had left, he might as well use it.

As he bit through the garlicky crust of the bread, he was suddenly glad that the disease had taken his hearing and not his tastebuds. Whoever had created that breadstick deserved a Nobel prize, in Lance’s opinion. His mother cooked for a living, and while she was an absolute whiz in the kitchen, whoever made this was a wiz _ard_ . He felt a hand on a shoulder, and realized he had closed his eyes in ecstasy. He _never_ closed his eyes; it made him feel too vulnerable. But this marvel of math, science, and buttery bread had lowered his guard.

He breathed a sigh and opened his eyes. Shiro was looking at him, smiling, and so was Keith. They both looked like they totally understood his reaction. Obviously they had experience with this sort of sensory euphoria. _Who the hell_ , he wrote on a stray piece of paper, _created that freaking_ masterpiece _you call a breadstick?_

Shiro laughed, laughter a sound Lance missed more than most. He then translated for Keith, who cracked a smile and chuckled in return. He held his hand out for the pen, and Lance obliged.

 _That would be Hunk. My roommate and chef extraordinaire,_ Keith scrawled in his somehow-neat handwriting.

 _I need to meet this man. Possibly for lunch. I’ll buy, if he cooks,_ Lance replied. Keith laughed as Shiro translated, opening his mouth and closing his eyes in surprised glee. As he looked at this wonderful smiling boy, Lance realized he would give anything to be able to hear the noise of his laughter. Even Hunk’s breadsticks.

Lance took another bite. Ok, maybe not the breadsticks.

Shiro motioned to the table that had produced this otherworldly food item, and–lo and behold–there was a small half-eaten tray of godly ambrosia, or as mortals liked to call it, baked spaghetti.

He could practically _hear_ his mouth watering. He hadn’t had anything for lunch because he had spent the entire first part of the period looking around for the art room, which was on the opposite side of the campus from where he had been. He had only eaten a piece of plain toast this morning, prepared by none other than himself, because his mom had started opening extra early in a last ditch attempt to attract more customers. It was 12:30 and he was starving, and the baked spaghetti looked to him like an oasis looks to a man in a desert.

He quickly scrawled _You are a freaking_ prince _among men, Shiro,_ and darted over to the spaghetti. Tentatively he raised a fork he had found, and took his first bite.

Holy crow, this guy Hunk knew food like Beethoven knew music, like Da Vinci knew art, like Shakespeare knew poetry. The sheer flavor of it was like a symphony for his tastebuds, the texture further enhancing its goodness. Normally he would savor food like this, but his stomach couldn’t bring himself to. He just kept shoveling it in, wallowing in the elation of his sensitive palate.

When he finally looked up, Shiro and Keith were both staring at him (well, Keith was staring at the patch of air just over his right shoulder, but it was close enough). _What?_ He wrote. _Is there a piece of spaghetti in my teeth?_

Shiro burst out laughing, and soon Keith did too as the art teacher translated between bouts of laughter. Keith grasped for the paper and the pen, and wrote _Nah, it’s just obvious you’re experiencing what is commonly known as Post-Hunk Euphoria among the initiated._

 _Is this a common thing?_ Lance replied.

_Yeah. Hunk has that effect on people–both food-wise and personality-wise. He’s a great guy. You should meet him sometime._

Lance laughed. _Yeah, sounds good to me. As long as there’s food involved._

Keith smiled, genuinely smiled, and it warmed Lance’s heart. This poor kid deserved as much happiness as he could get, be it in the form of food or friends. Possibly food _and_ friends. Or friends that can make food. Lance took his last bite of spaghetti, letting his eyes drift close for a short second. Yeah, definitely friends that can make food.

Keith picked up the pen, about to write something, when his head snapped up. Instead of whatever he was originally going to write, he scratched out _Hey, it’s the bell. What’s your next period?_

Lance breathed a sigh. Back to class after a lunch filled with phenomenal food and equally phenomenal art, and possibly a future friend, two if you counted Shiro. He seemed like a cool guy, and Lance felt like they could really become close in the future.

And Keith… that guy was like a little sad puppy half the time and a smirking, somewhat smug emo kid with a hell of a lot of talent and a lousy haircut the other half.

Well… he had the talent all the time. And the mullet.

Just sometimes, he was timidly accepting praise for his work, nervous and sheepish like he had something to be ashamed of. Other times, he seemed more confident, more accepting, more natural and sure of himself.

But whichever side of Keith was showing, Lance felt drawn to him. He wanted to become friends, wanted to hang out with this kid, and not only because of his ties to the food god, Hunk. He honestly seemed like a good person, and Lance needed a few more good people in his life. He had his family, and for them he was forever grateful, but he needed a friend that wasn’t his teacher… who wasn’t even technically his teacher in the first place.

Speaking of teachers…

 _I’ve got computer science. Nice teacher, but I hate the class._ It was his elective course, and it burned him up that the administration refused to give him the elective he wanted and instead assigning him one they thought would be good for him, since he was in high level math and all.

Because why would they assign the deaf kid a music class, no matter what he thought he wanted?

So much easier for them to give him a class they thought would be better for him and ignore his pleas, so they could pat themselves on the back later and applaud their own clear consciences.

He had gone and complained to the administration about it, but it had been obvious they weren’t going to do anything. He had tried to ask the principal about it, but he never got past the assistant principal, a nasty piece of work named Mr. Zarkon, and the senior counselor, an equally nasty lady named Ms. Haggar. According to some, the principal was supposed to be a great guy, very understanding, very knowledgeable, a bit eccentric but good with kids and managing the school. Too bad Lance had never even _met_ the guy; all he knew was that his name was Coran, Principal Coran.

But whatever; it didn’t matter. He still went after school for special coaching with the music teacher, an incredible woman who went by simply Allura. No Ms., Miss, or anything like that. That was just Allura; she was extremely formal in some ways, always dressing cleanly and primly like she was going to play in a symphony orchestra right after school, but informal in others, like letting her students call her by her first name and never remembering to call role, because she gets so swept up in the class and doing what she loves.

Shiro touched his shoulder, motioning down at the paper where Keith had written _I’ve got English next, on the opposite side of the school… see you some other time, maybe?_ He had already left, probably because the art room was pretty far from the English building, taking his sketchbook and pens with him.

 _Bye, Shiro. It was great meeting you guys, and eating your spaghetti,_ Lance scrawled quickly, waving as he left the classroom. _On to computers,_ he thought, sighing slightly. _Let’s hope Mr. Holt takes pity on me today._

A few hours later, it was obvious that none of his teachers had felt like being merciful, based on his homework load. The backpack he carried felt like it was filled with rocks, and the mere idea of having to do it all was like the sky being placed on his shoulders. Especially since he knew he was a terrible procrastinator; in fact, he took pride in it. Often he would see just how long he could go without doing the work before finally giving in to his weak-willed, softer side that just wanted to pass twelfth grade. Frequently he would last until the literal minute before the bell rang, hastily scribbling down answers that weren’t exactly quality but at least he didn’t waste much time on them.

When he finally reached the door after what felt like a mile of walking, Lance just barged right in, not bothering to knock, and flopped on the ground. This is the point at which, before he had lost his hearing and therefore his desire to speak, he would loudly moan that his existence was pointless, that nothing was worthwhile and how could teachers hate someone so gorgeous. Unfortunately, he had to resort to large, dramatic gestures and wordless groaning.

Allura didn’t even look up from her spot on the piano, probably playing some breathtakingly beautiful melody, maybe even as breathtakingly beautiful as her. Lance just lay there in a heap until she finished her piece and walked over, a skeptical, unamused look on her face.

 _Lance_ , she signed. _I just had that floor cleaned, and I don’t need you drooling all over it._

Lance sat up quickly, his lamentable homework situation forgotten as he dealt with this new injustice. _I do not_ drool! He replied, his face a mask of comic outrage.

 _Yes, you do. Mr. Holt has sent me pictures._ She whipped out her phone and went to her emails. Sure enough, there was Lance in all his slumbering glory. It was grainy, like taken through a low-quality security camera, but it was definitely from Mr. Holt’s class. Now, whether he was actually _drooling…_ that was another matter entirely. No way did Lance drool, no matter what grainy photographic evidence anyone might provide to the contrary. Still… there did seem to be a little shine, like light reflecting off water, on the table that his head was laying on…

Lance felt a blush creeping into his cheeks, coupled with a rush of anger flooding his system. Yes, he may have fallen asleep in his class on occasion. But that was only because it was _boring_ , all that CSS and HTML and whatever other acronyms computer nerds talk about all the time. Plus, he couldn’t even hear anything. He just had to watch as Mr. Holt jotted everything on the board rapidly, face animated as he explained the logistics and whatever they learned about in that class. It wasn’t that Lance didn’t _like_ Mr. Holt, it was just that computers had never interested him a whole lot. Sure, he liked technology. He was a teenager, for God’s sake. And he liked _using_ computers, he just didn’t care too much about how to program them. Let someone else write the program, Lance just wanted to utilize it when it was done. Preferably if it were a videogame or something cool like that.

He wasn’t too sure if he liked Mr. Holt any more, though, if he took pictures of him when he dozed. _Why in the freaking universe would_ Mr. Holt _be sending you pictures of me asleep?_

 _It was either me or your mother_ , Allura signed. _And Mr. Holt didn’t want you to have a broken body along with your broken hearing._

Lance shuddered just thinking about it. His mom wanted him to pass high school as an honor student, get into a good college, and somehow also balance all that with a social life and get plenty of sleep. Somehow he didn’t think sleeping in class really fit into her plans. He loved his mother, more than anyone else on the planet, and she loved him to death… and that was sort of the problem. She was very, very serious about him moving out of this city and somewhere where he could make a living and be happy. Still, Lance didn’t think Mr. Holt was taking creepshots of him just to embarrass him with Allura.

_Yeah right. What’s the real reason he was taking photos of me?_

_I asked him to,_ she replied simply, the lack of elaboration driving Lance crazy.

 _W-H-Y?_ He asked slowly, signing it out letter by letter.

_So I could blackmail you into singing with our chorus group._

Lance groaned, falling back down to the floor, pushing his finger through his hair. Not _this_ again. No freaking _way_ was he singing with Allura’s chorus group. He saw her begin to sign, to state her case, but Lance just closed his eyes. One advantage of being deaf was being able to effortlessly tune people out, something he had taken advantage of on many occasions.

He felt his phone buzz, and took it out if only to distract him from Allura’s annoyed signing. Instead, it was an email, from the one and the same. The subject was “Ten Reasons Why You Should Come to the Concert.” Lance groaned again and shoved his phone back in his pocket. He looked at Allura, who had tilted her head in a slightly smug, questioning look, like “Shall I begin?” He nodded wearily. He might as well humor her before he shot her down.

 _First off, we_ need _you. You’re crazy talented, and you know I don’t compliment you lightly. You’ve got a big enough ego without a beautiful woman saying how good you are._ Lance allowed a small smirk for that. True enough. He didn’t comment on the fact Allura called herself beautiful; she wasn’t vain, and not for a second did that ever cross Lance’s mind. Allura was one of the least vain people he had ever met, she just was raised to be presentable and proper at all times… so basically, the exact opposite of Lance.

_Our chorus could really use a singer like you. You’d be a soloist, no question. You memorize songs like you were taught them at birth, and you hit the notes dead on more often than some people that can actually hear. We’re struggling a bit after the loss of last year’s seniors, trying to compensate for the fact that a lot more people left than came in. This is an important concert for us, Lance._

Lance just sighed. Allura tried this practically every concert the chorus had. It never changed Lance’s answer, though. _Allura,_ he started, his eyes echoing the weariness he felt. _You know I don’t do these things, and you know why. The answer is still no._

_But Lance…_

_No._ In sign language, it’s difficult to cut someone off, but Allura had trailed off on purpose. Her face wasn’t so much crestfallen as resigned. She really couldn’t have been expecting a different answer.

 _So I guess I’ll send those pictures to your mother, then,_ she replied, a slight grin quirking up the edges of her mouth. Lance gaped at her.

_You wouldn’t dare._

_Try me._

Oh, this was something right out of a nightmare. Go to Allura’s concert with all of the chorus kids, a group of kids who he couldn’t stand and who didn’t particularly like him back, and show to everyone that yes, the deaf kid _can_ sing, and you should probably pick on him even more now that he’s better than you even though he has such an impediment… or face his mother with photographic evidence that he had been catching some z’s during class time. He knew she wanted him to get a full 8-10 hours of sleep, but somehow he didn’t think she meant getting it _at_ school. Plus, if he went to the concert, that was valuable time he could’ve spent working and earning a bit more money for his family. If his mom got that photo, though, she’d likely ground him for eternity, no matter what that did to their income. It was a no-win situation, and he was really beginning to wonder why he thought Allura was such a great mentor in the first place.

Allura had an email draft pulled up on her phone, pre-written stern comments accompanied by pictures of sleeping Lance, all filled out with his mother’s email address. Her finger was poised above the send button, grinning at Lance evilly. He let out one last final moan, flopping around even more, before raising his hands and signing a simple word.

_Fine._

Allura grinned wider, saving the draft, but not sending it. Maybe she wanted it saved so when Lance inevitably tried to back out last minute she could use the blackmail card again. He knew it would work, too.

 _You’re a horrible person,_ he signed.

 _But you’re singing at my concert, so it’s worth it,_ she replied, smiling smugly.

Lance groaned, and having shed his backpack and his jacket, buried his face in the fabric. Why did the universe have to be so freaking cruel to good people?

An image of a boy with a mullet flitted through his mind.

 _And to some more than others_.


	4. See in a New Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which  
> 1\. Keith gets a surprise  
> 2\. The silent halls are not silent  
> 3\. The Virtuoso of Vittles calls  
> 4\. Lance or no cookies?  
> 5\. There's no contest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, the next installments might be coming slower, especially slower than the pace they first came out at. I'm juggling writing this, writing a school assignment, _another_ writing-based school assignment, and my usual procrastination. Basically, depending on how much time I end up being able to devote to the next chapters in the next week or so, they'll probably start coming slower. But I'm definitely sticking with this story, because I love it, and I love where it's going, and I'm sure not quitting now.  
>  Thank you all for the support, I'm very grateful. I hope you like this latest chapter!

Keith just wanted to stumble to his apartment and crash, preferably with junk food and Netflix. Or Hunk’s leftovers. Either way, he just needed to get away from human contact and school and take some time for himself.

As long as it had nothing to do with painting.

Maybe.

God, why did his life have to be so complicated? He loved painting, more than anything. It was his pastime, his hobby, his way of making a living. Even if he couldn't see what he was creating, the simple act of creating it calmed him and gave him a strange pleasure that no one would ever expect him to have.

But he was a weird mess of pride and insecurity; he was too proud to try and get his paintings out in the world, didn't want to be known as “the blind painter,” but he was also terrified that he wasn't good enough, no matter what Shiro told him. 

And today’s encounter with Lance had just shaken him up more. Lance’s little excited gasps and encouraging words had made Keith’s heart go  _ ka-thump _ in weird ways, and Keith was no longer able to say that it was just Shiro and Hunk who appreciated his work, his two good friends. He had always factored in extreme bias in their compliments, but this deaf boy who he had never met before had been touched by his art. What excuses was he supposed to give now?

Even still, he wasn't going to try and push his art further than it got. Selling it on Etsy was as far as he went, and even that only because he needed money to pay the rent. No matter how could anyone thought his art was, he really couldn't bring himself to share his art with the world. It was too painful, too much like something…

Something his parents would have wanted.

His parents, who were lost in the same car accident that had taken his sight. One day, he was a reasonably happy boy with a few friends and a future in art, and loving parents. The next day, he was an emo teenager being relocated by social workers who didn't quite know what to do with him. In the time it took for them to twiddle their thumbs, Keith had turned eighteen and found an apartment he could share with his only friend, and left his old life behind totally and completely.

Well, not totally. He still painted.

But thinking about a serious art career only reminded him of his mom and dad, who had always been so encouraging, like Shiro had been for the past few years. It hurt, the reminders of his past, and coupled with his pride and self-doubt, made it virtually impossible to even consider reaching further with his art. 

Urgh. He really needed some comfort food and sleep right now.

He was always one of the last students off campus, as he often stopped by Shiro’s room to work for a bit or just say hi. It was peaceful, walking around the near silent campus, albeit a little unnerving. But Keith would prefer silent and unnerving over the usual ear drum-busting cacophony that made it so difficult to concentrate. He brushed his free hand, the one not carrying his sketchbook, against the wall, feeling for any Braille. His fingers quickly found some. He was at the music building, with the chorus room and band storage and whatever else they had in there. He needed to adjust his course a little bit for the front of the school, and the sidewalk that he walked home on. When he had been younger, he had had his eyes on a sweet motorcycle that he could make some nifty modifications to… now he didn’t have his eyes on anything at all, and he had to walk or carpool with someone if he wanted to go anywhere.

He kept walking, along the side of the music building. He was about to turn around a corner and leave the building behind for the day when he heard something, an entirely different sound than footsteps or chaotic high schoolers. It sounded like… someone singing.

Keith felt himself being drawn to the source of the music. His hearing had sharpened over the past few years, and there was no other noise competing for prominence. It was as if the school went silent as soon as that voice began wafting through the halls, like the scent of one of Hunk’s pastries browning in the oven. And like Hunk’s pastries, he was being irresistibly pulled to the source.

As he got closer, it became clear that it was not just  _ someone _ singing; it was an artist. Male, clearly, but rich and emotional, strong and warm. The song, whatever it was, was a slow, soulful melody, accompanied by what sounded like a piano.

It was quite possibly the most beautiful thing Keith had ever heard.

He finally reached the point where it was loudest. It was an open door, and a quick touch of the Braille on the wall revealed it was the chorus room. That, at least, made sense.

Another thing that now made sense was the old stories about sailors being drawn to their doom by singing sirens. If their voices were even half as beautiful as the one emanating from the room, then Keith would have already done a swan dive overboard.

As the song slowly faded, Keith realized he had been standing like a stalker outside of the door, just listening and not making his presence known for fear that they would stop singing if he randomly popped out of nowhere. He timidly walked through the door. “Uh, hey, I couldn’t help but hear you singing. It was beautiful… sorry for eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help myself.” He could feel his face heating up. He should’ve just left, and not told anyone he was listening. Now there’d just be an awkward social confrontation in which he had to painstakingly explain his blindness and inevitably be shunned and walk out with his tail between his legs. Why did he get himself into these situations?

Instead, he heard a female voice. It was Allura, his music theory teacher. She was great, a wonderful lady who was really into both music and teaching. He just wasn’t really into learning how to play instruments and sing or any of that. He liked music, had to since it was one of the few art forms still afforded to him. But that singing had been more beautiful than any music he had heard previously. “Oh, hello Keith! I’m glad you stopped by! Maybe  _ you _ can convince Lance here that he needs to participate in my concert… though I’ve already roped him in anyway–” 

Keith did the equivalent of an auditory double take.  _ “Lance?” _

“Oh, do you two know each other?” There was a pause, like Lance was signing something to her. “Lance says you both met at lunch, and that you’re an incredible artist and have a friend who is a cooking prodigy. Does that about sum it up?”

He could practically see the slight grin on her face, probably raising an eyebrow. He flushed slightly at the compliment, but chose to ignore it. “Yeah, that’s about right. So… uh… that was  _ Lance _ singing?”

“Yes, it was!” came the reply, and Keith nearly choked. He had thought Lance was mute, but clearly he wasn’t. Maybe he just didn’t like talking… but then why should singing be any different? But even as he thought the question, he knew the answer. For the same reason Keith continued to paint; because it was what they loved to do, and no disability was going to stop them from doing it.

He focused his gaze on where he thought Lance was, based on the awkward shuffling he heard. “That was incredible.” he said, slowly and quietly. On an impulse, he walked over to him and reached for his hand. He felt Lance put his warm, calloused fingers in his, and he began tracing on his palm.

_ Beautiful, _ he traced, with a ghost of a smile on his face.  _ Seriously. _

He felt as Lance took his hand and squeezed it, then slowly let go. He tried to fight the heat rising in his cheeks. He wasn’t holding hands with this kid, he told himself. No, he was just trying to communicate just about the only way they could, through touch. That was all. Never mind the fact that if any of the idiots who graced this school saw them they’d start hollering about the two gay disabled kids, a match made in heaven. Never mind the fact that Lance’s voice was like an angel’s, and that his hand felt warm and just plain  _ right _ in Keith’s…

He shook his head, banishing those thoughts as soon as they cropped up. He knew he needed sleep, that he wasn’t painting with a full set of brushes so to speak, but he hadn’t realized he needed rest  _ this  _ badly.

Lance probably wasn’t even gay, anyway…

Keith made a slight growling noise in his throat, trying to stop thinking about Lance and his golden voice in  _ that _ way. Man, he  _ really _ needed to go home and crash.

“So, uh, you guys meet up here and practice? After school?” Keith blurted, taking a quick step back from Lance.

“Yep, kind of like you and Shiro.” Keith must have made a face, and Allura laughed, a light, tinkling sound that reminded him of silver bells. “Shiro and I talk every so often, over coffee in the teacher’s lounge. He’s brought you up on several occasions. He’s very proud, you know.”

Keith felt himself blush even redder. This was really turning out to be a bad decision, and he wanted more than ever to bolt to the apartment and construct a pillow fort where he could live out the rest of his days. He hated being in social situations, especially awkward ones. And this definitely qualified as awkward… even if it’s just him overreacting, it certainly  _ feels _ awkward enough.

“Oh… great.” Keith managed. He groped for an excuse that wasn’t as lame as ‘I have lots of homework to do,’ and less of an absolute lie. Did he have lots of homework? Yeah. But was he going to do it? No way, Jose. 

Suddenly, his phone started vibrating in his pocket. He said a silent prayer and took it out of his pocket. He had his ringtone off, so he couldn’t tell who it was. “Who’s it say this is?” he asked, holding out the phone. There was a pause, then Allura replied “Lance says it’s the ‘Beethoven of Breadsticks, the Culinary Crackerjack, the Virtuoso of Vittles.’” Keith could hear the skepticism rolling off of her in waves, with a hint of amusement.

He could practically see Lance’s grin, and it totally didn’t make his heart go  _ ka-thump. _

“Ah,” Keith said, before Allura could elaborate further. “It’s Hunk. D’ya mind if I take this?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just accepted the call and raised it to his ear.

“Hey, buddy, how’s it going?” he asked, hoping against hope that Hunk would say something along the lines of ‘Keith I need your help book it here immediately,’ just for an excuse to get out of this too-warm chorus room.

“I’m good, baking some cookies because I’ve got an essay I’m stressed about. But I’ll be fine once I sit down with a plate of warm chocolate chips and get started on it. How about you?”

“Uh, fine I guess.”

“I just called because you’re later than usual, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. You need me to drive by the school and give you a ride?”

“No, uh, Hunk, I’m good. Thanks though, I appreciate it. I just stopped by the chorus room on my way home… met a new guy, he seems pretty cool. I think you’d like him.”

“Keith, answer me honestly here. Did you ‘meet a new guy’ or  _ ‘meet a new guy’ _ ?”

Keith hoped Hunk could feel the evil eye he was giving him through the phone. He stepped a bit further away from Lance and Allura and cupped his hand around his phone a little tighter. Not that Lance would hear a word, but Allura might…

“Just a regular guy, Hunk. God, you’re as nosy as Shiro. I barely know him, but he already worships you like a deity so I figured he was worth getting to know.”

“Why don’t you invite him over? We have, like, two other friends between us. And one’s your art teacher. We could always use a new initiate to the group.”

“What group? It’s basically us. Shiro doesn’t really count, and you only ever facetime Shay.”

“That’s because she moved!”

“Yeah, yeah. But still, your overseas girlfriend and my art teacher don’t really count as part of the ‘group.’ So, it’s us.”

“So why not invite this guy over? I don’t  _ really _ need to do my essay when I’m supposed to.”

“Umm…”

“It’s settled, then. I expect you in about ten minutes, five if the guy has a car.”

“By the way, his name’s Lance, and he’s… uh, well, he’s deaf.”

“I live with a blind dude, Keith. I have no problems with that. He seems like a cool enough guy. Plus, if you don't bring him, you're not getting cookies."

“You really know how to get to a guy, don't ya? See you in a few.”

“See you soon.”

Keith hung up and looked at where he estimated Lance was, then looked down at the floor again. He was pretty sure he was blushing like crazy, and he cursed himself.  _ There is  _ nothing,  _ repeat, nothing to be embarrassed about. Just invite the guy over so Hunk will give you cookies. _

He cleared his throat. “That was Hunk. He wants to meet you, Lance, apparently as much as you want to meet him, because we–er, he–wants to invite you over.” He scratched the back of his neck, a nervous habit.

There was a pause as Allura translated. “Like, today? Right now?” she asked for Lance.

“Uh, yeah. Like in five, ten minutes.”

“What’s in it for me?” Allura replied, parroting Lance’s signing with her words. “Oh, I warn you, Keith, he’s got that evil grin on his face that generally means he’s going to start singing some song that he knows I hate.”

“He’s baking chocolate chip cookies,” Keith replied, an identical smirk crawling onto his face as well. “You in?”

He suddenly heard running feet, like Lance had charged him. Honestly, after that whole awkward conversation, Keith wouldn’t be surprised. Or maybe the thought of Hunk’s cookies had caused him to go crazy. It wouldn’t be the first time. He heard Allura say “Lance! Not again! He’s blind!”

The sound of footsteps abruptly cut off, but Keith was harboring no illusions that Lance had simply stopped running; not with Allura’s exasperated warning. He braced his feet and held his arms slightly out as Lance crashed into him, slinging his arms around Keith’s neck. He managed to stay standing, holding Lance as he crowed wordlessly in victory.

He felt Lance let go of his neck, and Allura sighed. “He says, quote unquote ‘Take me home!’”

Keith sighed. The fact that Lance literally jumped at him, a blind kid, and expected him to catch him triggered an annoyance that allowed him to push the thought that  _ hey, he was in direct contact with Lance _ out of his head. He smirked at the boy in his arms, winked, and then promptly dropped him.

Lance yelped as he hit the floor, and Allura and Keith both started laughing. He couldn't see the look on Lance’s face, but he would bet it was pretty priceless. Plus, the sound he had made, like a surprised puppy, was pretty great as well. And, Keith grudgingly admitted, a little adorable. Maybe. Only because of the connotations to puppies.

“Er… here's a rough translation of what Lance is saying: ‘What the  _ censored _ , I censored jumped into your censored arms and you censored  _ dropped _ me? What the censored’s up with  _ that _ ?’”

“Allura. The censoring?”

“I’m a teacher, Keith. I can't and won't endorse cussing, even if it is in sign language.”

“Anyway, we’ve got to be going,” he said. Keith looked down at Lance, who still seemed to be sprawled on the floor based on the weight on top of his feet, and grinned evilly. “You got a car, Jumper Boy?”

He heard Lance stand up, overdramatically brushing himself off. He felt a single finger being pushed into his chest, and could practically see Lance’s annoyed face, as if challenging him. To do what, Keith wasn't sure. He had a sinking feeling he was about to find out, though.

Allura made a noise, halfway in between a sigh and a groan. “He says ‘Oh, do I, buster. Keep up if you can.’”

Keith felt a rush of competitiveness flood through his veins, flushing out whatever foreign and not-so-welcome emotions had been lurking in the corners before. He could handle whatever Lance could dish out, even if he was blind and partially terrified of what vehicular horrors he would be put through… on his way to his meeting of  _ social _ horrors.

Wasn’t life just so  _ fun _ like that?


	5. Heard the Last Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which  
> 1\. Blue is revealed  
> 2\. Keith isn't impressed  
> 3\. Cookie wars are hard fought  
> 4\. But oh-so-rewarding  
> 5\. Pidge babysits  
> 6\. ^More like the baby Pidgesits  
> 7\. Lance has daddy issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, it's been a while.  
> This chapter took me forever and a day to write, but it's done and I'm actually sort of pleased with it. I hope you all will be too.  
> Hopefully the next chapter will come faster, as this one gave me such bad writer's block I really don't think it could be any worse, but you never know. I clearly wasn't functioning my best while writing this, as I literally wrote a page of dialogue before realizing–oh wait– _Lance can't hear._ So yeah, the next chapter will probably be sooner and hopefully have a lot less pathetic mistakes.  
>  But this chapter did lead me to discover some things about Lance, so it wasn't all bad. Plus, I developed the plot further so there will be even more feels down the road.  
> So, hope you guys enjoy it!

Lance wished Keith could see, not for the first time that day. But now, he just wished he could see because of the gleaming beauty of a machine sitting in front of him, a beauty Keith would never be able to witness and so Lance couldn’t hold it quite as high over his head. He didn’t want to make Keith _jealous_ , per se… more like tinged slightly green with a tiny little bit of envy. It was just too beautiful, and Lance was so proud of it. He treated it like his baby, keeping the chrome nice and polished and taking it into the shop regularly to make sure it still was working smoothly. It was a shame Keith would never be able to lay eyes on the beauty.

But that didn’t mean Lance had forgiven him for dropping him on the floor like that; his butt was still sore, and he bruised easily, in more ways than one. Lance was prepared to get a little reckless with his driving, if only to give Keith a bit of a scare. It couldn’t be pleasant to be riding blind… especially with a motorcycle, like Lance’s.

He couldn’t believe it when his mom had actually okayed his choice of automobile. She had said for most of his life how motorcycles were dangerous, and that motorcyclists were asking to get killed, and that if he ever became one he’d _really_ be asking to get killed because she’d do it herself. But when it came time to buy a car, and he had mooned over the motorcycles, her eyes seemed to soften as she signed _Go for it._ The next thing Lance knew, he had the motorcycle of his dreams and was prepared to drive it around and show it off at every possible opportunity.

This most certainly counted.

They arrived at the senior parking lot, and Lance made a big sweeping motion with his hands. Even though Keith couldn’t see it, he couldn’t resist a bit of showmanship. Especially when he was introducing this beauty of a vehicle. She deserved a little dazzle. He grabbed Keith’s wrist and pressed it to the smooth leather of the seat, the polished chrome, the padded handle grips. He watched his face, looking for any sign of recognition, or even better, a sign that he was impressed.

Lance got more than he had bargained for; Keith’s eyebrows shot up immediately, his blank gray eyes going wide. His mouth moved soundlessly, probably saying things Lance couldn’t hear. He raised his free hand to the side of the bike, softly pulling his other hand from Lance’s grip and exploring the machine on his own. Every second that passed, he seemed to grow more and more surprised. He turned to Lance, and pulled out a piece of paper from his half-open backpack.

 _Is that… a_ moped _?_ Keith scrawled, propping the paper on his knee. _Like, an old fashioned little baby bike moped?_

Lance’s heart skipped a beat, and his face flushed red from anger. Did this kid just insult _Blue_ ? He glanced down at the paper again. Yep, he had. And hell, he was going to pay for that. He snatched the pen from him, and started to write some profanities mixed in with a defense of his motorcycle, when he realized Keith _couldn’t freaking read it._

Ugh, why did he have to be _blind_?

He sighed, and settled on the seat. He pulled Keith on behind him, and Keith automatically wrapped his arms around Lance’s waist. He seemed practiced, putting his feet in the place where they belonged and keeping his arms snug around Lance’s lanky frame. Lance tried to ignore the warm line that Keith’s arms traced around his body. Probably because the kid wore a jacket, gloves, and jeans all the time, and all his abnormal body heat was just transferring to Lance. Yeah, that was it. Dude was just too dang _warm_ all the time.

He narrowed his eyes, revving the engines. He could feel Keith’s warm breath on his neck, coming out in short bursts like he was laughing. Laughing at him and Blue, no doubt. Well, Lance would show him.

Lance slowly motored out of the parking lot. He could practically feel Keith’s look of skepticism burning a hole in his back, but still he kept it slow and steady, lulling the blind boy into a false sense of security. He could feel Keith’s grip loosen, and he smirked. Lance was going to show him no mercy.

He continued going slow as he exited the parking lot and continued through the school zone, and down the main road. But then, instead of heading straight like Keith was motioning to do, he made a sharp right. There weren’t a lot of cars on the road, and Lance knew a way to get back on the main road from the detour he was taking, but he relished the surprised intake of breath he felt Keith take. The blind boy removed one hand from around Lance’s waist, gesturing wildly and rather crudely, but all Lance did was grin.

He pressed a button out of the many that had been added onto the handlebar, his grin widening. This was his favorite part of his bike, his favorite modification. The simple, sky blue moped may not have been the most wild looking bike, but that was part of its beauty. Everyone underestimated its power.

Just like they did Lance.

_One mississippi, two mississippi–_

Suddenly the bike lurched like a startled cat, and their speed effectively tripled. Keith, who had been holding loosely to Lance with one hand, had practically suffocated Lance in his frantic attempt to secure himself to the now-racing motorcycle.

Lance smirked, imagining Keith’s wide-eyed, hopefully a bit scared, expression. Lance, however, loved this. The feel of the somewhat open road, tearing by on a little baby blue moped, leaving passerby looking a tad confused by the flash of sky speeding past. They weren’t going too far above the limit, just five miles per hour more or so, but it was a heck of a lot faster than their previous speed, and it sure _felt_ fast.

As the cool wind blew against Lance’s face, sucking the air from his lungs in a way that was invigorating, he glanced back at Keith, expecting to seem him look a little freaked and maybe a little annoyed.

Instead, his head was hanging out to the side like a dog sticking its head out of a car window, trying to catch the air whipping past and the euphoria that went with it. His eyes were wide open in wonder, the wind making them water but he didn’t seem to care, and his mouth was open too, the sides curved up, as if he was yelling words that Lance couldn’t hear but he could feel anyway, because they were the same sort of words he was feeling. His long black hair was streaming behind him, and despite his blindness he looked every inch like he was made to be on this thing, this motorcycle.

A flash of color in his peripheral vision brought his focus forward, re-affixing his gaze on the road and the ticked off driver that he had just cut off. The driver’s hand was on the center of his steering wheel, and he must have been honking; so not that Lance would have been able to hear it. He realized that he was getting close to the turn that would put him back en route for Keith’s apartment, and was just glad that Keith couldn't've seen that the reason Lance was getting honked at was because he had been staring. Especially since he had been looking for an expression of shock, surprise, and instead received a look of… bliss, of euphoria, of a sort of sheer happiness and wonder.He couldn’t help but feel the sharp lines of Keith’s warm body and the strong arms around his waist as he took the turn. He tried to press the heat searing marks onto his skin to the back of his mind as he searched for the right building number, and then parallel parked outside of it.

Keith didn’t get off right away, only when Lance tapped him on the shoulder. But when he did, he reached back and petted Blue’s leather seat like a cat. Lance couldn’t help but smile. Keith wasn’t going to underestimate _his_ bike anytime soon.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t underestimate _him._

Keith led Lance into the building, which had a small, cramped lobby that had a faint scent of mildew and an elevator that had an out-of-order sign that had been heavily graffitied. Lance got the feeling that the elevator had been broken for a while now when Keith immediately went for the wooden door that housed the stairwell.

The stairs were plain concrete, like they had been designed just for a backup in case the elevator had failed, or the people who built it just couldn’t afford to do anything with it. Keith climbed higher, brushing his fingers lightly on the signs with the floor numbers, finally stopping at the seventh floor and entering the long hallway. Lance followed.

Keith trailed his hand along the doors, probably contracting about a hundred new bacterial viruses. Lance hoped he was going to wash his hands before he ate, but it was unlikely. Given the fact that Keith was living alone with a friend, Lance didn’t think Keith’s mom had ingrained the same ‘cleanliness or suffer’ mantra in his head that Lance’s had. Especially since he had five siblings, two of whom were under six and stuck their grabby hands just about anywhere they could reach.

Lance could have found the right door without Keith’s help, though. Because while the other doors put out scents that screamed “stay away,” Keith’s room, 713, sent out the aroma of fresh baked cookies. Lance was drawn to it like a fly to a pitcher plant, the sweet scent drawing him closer and closer until he was inside.

He gasped. Not only was the scent of cookies even stronger now, like a heavenly breeze wafting through the small space, but the apartment was so absolutely _different_ it awed him. The apartment complex gave off the vibe “cramped, smelly, and dumpy,” while this apartment was practically screaming that it was a wing of an art museum, albeit furnished.

The walls were painted with swirling designs, some completely abstract, others realistic or surrealistic, others patterned. There was a falcon in flight taking prominence on the left wall, in a sky filled with clouds and white henna designs. Tucked in one corner a dragon roared, its golden-red wings flaring out behind it as it breathed white-hot flames. Large chunks of glowing blue crystal lined the bottom of a wall for a ways, sticking out in irregular clusters of gleaming prisms. There was a wall partially painted like the earth, deep browns and grays contrasted by glowing gems partly hidden by the dirt, darker patterns lacing the earth like a spider’s web. A forest grew in one corner, a small fox peeking out from behind the trees that somehow shimmered with the soft light of sunset. Faux light filtered through deep blues and greens on one wall, a simple yet beautiful painting of the ocean.

As he stepped forward, eyes glued on the walls, Keith walked in behind him and closed the door. Lance looked back at him, and he was sniffing the air as his face lit up. He grabbed Lance’s arm and dragged him toward the space that was producing the heavenly aroma, a small kitchenette that had been tucked in a corner. There was a short counter with a couple of barstools in front of the kitchen space that a big guy with a yellow shirt and a bandana tied around his head was standing behind, grinning.

The boy, who must’ve been the famous Hunk, waved. He gave off a vibe somehow like his cookies: warm, friendly, someone Lance definitely wanted to get to know. He gestured at the wall behind him, which instead of being covered in intricate paintings, instead was plain black with the words “WELCOME, FRIEND” written in chalk on it, accompanied by a smiley face. Lance grinned. Somehow, this place felt cozy instead of cramped, more like a home than a house. He suspected it had a lot to do with the big guy wearing the oven mitts and the friendly smile.

Keith immediately went at sat down at the counter, reaching blindly for a cookie. Hunk batted his hands away from the tray easily, nodding at Lance to take a seat next to him. Lance complied, never one to deny a chance at anything that smelled so good, and Hunk ripped off two paper towels and placed them in front of the two boys, like a mom handing them plates to eat off of. Then he dumped the tray of cookies onto a large plate, and the rush began.

Lance instinctively knew that he needed to get as many cookies as he could before Keith took them all, as Keith was reaching in to do the same thing. Hunk was watching, grinning, and Lance noticed he had his own plate piled with cookies set to the side. Quick as a whip, while one hand was darting in, trying to snag as many treats as he could and set them on his napkin, the other hand reached out and grabbed Hunk’s plate, dumping it into the center.

Hunk’s eyes narrowed in an instant, all trace of his previous friendly attitude gone as he zeroed in on Lance. He mouthed _You’re going down, punk,_ and suddenly it was a three-way battle, where even cookies already on your plate were fair game and there were no measures deemed too desperate. Keith was quick, his gloved hands darting in and out like a cobra striking, and he would slap your hand hard if it got in his way. Hunk, however, just fought through whatever hands were already reaching, snagging a couple cookies in each grab with his large hands. Lance went for the unguarded piles on their plates, often rewarded with a few cookies at a time for his sneaky efforts.

Slowly the battle wound down as they looked at their hauls. Surprisingly, they were pretty equal, Keith coming out maybe one or two ahead. They all wore identical grins, sporting identical chocolate-stained hands, with slightly crushed but no less delicious cookies sitting in front of them. Somehow, Lance had refrained from eating in the middle of the fight, and he itched now for the first bite of gooey, chocolatey goodness. As one, they all picked up a cookie and knocked them together in the middle, like they were toasting to each other, then took a bite.

And Lance’s world became one of perfection, in cookie form. Despite the manhandling the treats had just gone through, the texture and density were perfect. The chocolate chips were as gooey as if they had just come out of the oven, and the golden brown dough was baked to perfection. He had literally never tasted anything so good in his life as that cookie, and he had a whole plate of them sitting before him. Lance giggled; actually giggled, that was how crazily euphoric he was feeling. Both Keith and Hunk turned to him, emerging from similar states of bliss to look surprised. But then they grinned, Hunk’s broad warm smile and Keith’s crooked smirk, and Lance couldn’t help but grin back.

Then he stuffed another bite in his mouth, and the rest of his time was solely devoted to the heavenly ambrosia mortals had deemed chocolate chip cookies.

When the last of the cookies were gone, Lance sighed and stretched, a contented feeling spreading warmly through his body. He could spend some time here, in this beautiful room with the delicious food and good people.

Hunk reached for an eraser and took it to the chalkboard wall. He picked up a piece of yellow chalk and scrawled in his large, all-caps handwriting, _So, Lance, it’s nice to meet you. Even if you did force me into a cookie battle. What’s up?_

Lance got down from his stool, stretching again like a cat after a nap in the sun, and grabbed a piece of blue chalk lying on the counter. _The sky,_ he wrote, then erased it as Hunk opened his mouth in a groan. _Your cookies, because they’re heavenly._

_Thanks. But you know what I mean._

_Okay, fine, just regular school stuff. Not much interesting._

_Besides running into “the blind kid,” seeing his incredible art for the first time, and getting invited over to his apartment in the span of a day? And meeting his awesome roommate?_

_You have a point, my friend._

_“My friend?”_

_Yeah. Duh. Keith too, if you want to tell him that. He might start getting a big head, though._ Lance grinned at Hunk, who smiled in return and turned to Keith, saying something that Lance couldn’t hear but seemed positive all the same from the look on his face. Lance had, like, seven friends, and five of them were his siblings. Of _course_ he wanted to be friends with these kids, the boy who painted like Michelangelo and was in awe of Lance’s motorcycle, and the boy that was a food freaking _god_ and had a warmth and kindness that was as constant as the sun. He’d have to be nuts not to.

Well, Lance _was_ pretty crazy, but that was besides the point.

Keith wore an identical smile to Hunk’s, the sort that said “maybe fate knows what it’s doing after all,” as he looked in Lance’s general direction. It warmed Lance to the bones… maybe even as much as Hunk’s food warmed him. Maybe.

He was just about to write something else on the chalkboard, probably something cocky or goofy or just whatever he came up with on the spur of the moment when his phone buzzed in his pocket. As a rule, he never let his notifications go unanswered, on the theory it could be his mom needing immediate help for whatever reason. It wasn’t her, generally, but it was better safe than sorry. This time, it was Pidge.

 

**Nerd Bird**

>where are you?

>i’m at your place and a small child is hanging on my neck and i need backup

>she’s _your_ sister

>Lance be a man and get over here

>i’ve got the stuff btw

 

Lance sighed. Pidge was unrelenting, a fast and furious presence in his life that drove him crazy but kept him grounded. Her sarcasm and dry wit was refreshing, made even more so by the fact that she could make her quips in sign language; her grandfather had gone partially deaf with age so she had learned ASL a long time before she met Lance. She was, aside from Allura and his siblings, his only friend… but now, Lance realized, Hunk and Keith were also on that list. And he didn’t really want to leave them, especially if he was being threatened with five-year-old Izzy.

But if she had brought the stuff… well, suffice to say Lance had been waiting for it to come in for weeks, now. And if Pidge had _finally_ gotten it ready…

If Keith and Hunk were really his friends, this sure wouldn’t be the last time he’d see them, right? Keith, at least, went to his school, and Hunk probably did too. And now he knew where they lived in case he ever wanted to pop by.

And Pidge was finally _ready…_

Mind made up, Lance scrawled _Guys, sorry, but I’ve gotta fly. Text me whenever, though, and I’m sure as hell coming back, so don’t think you’ve gotten rid of me that easily._ Under it, he scratched out his phone number. Hunk nodded, translated for Keith, and reached for a tupperware container sitting innocuously on the counter. He handed it to Lance, winking.

They both waved as Lance made his way out of the room, looking around at the beautiful murals for what would definitely not be the last time, and out into the dingy hallway and down the cobwebbed stairs, and onto his bike and into the street, unable to erase the image of light flickering softly through water from his mind’s eye… or the boy that had drawn it.

Ten minutes or so later, he pulled up in the front of a shop along main street, called Star-Crossed. It was his mom’s restaurant, a little Cuban place themed after space that they lived on top of. They technically owned the building, which was three stories high, the bottom story being the actual restaurant and the top two being their home, but it was hard to afford the upkeep, and it wasn’t a well-known place. There were few visitors, mostly regulars and friends of the family. His mom was a great cook, absolutely phenomenal, but that wasn’t enough. No one knew about it, so no one came.

Story of Lance’s life.

He sighed, pushing the negative thoughts out of his head when he saw Pidge’s old bicycle parked in the front. Pidge was here, and she had the things he needed. He was going to be able to help.

Plus, he needed to save her from his little siblings.

Lance took a deep breath and pushed open the door. A little bell rang, and his brother, Carlos, poked his head up from behind the counter. Carlos was a year younger than Lance, and the second oldest of the McClain siblings. He was quieter than Lance, for sure, and more studious. He was the one people said was going to go on to do “great things,” like find the cure for cancer or go to Mars or whatever. They tended to skip over Lance, just as they had before he went deaf; it was just even more common, now.

But Lance didn’t mind if Carlos had the limelight; he deserved it. He had worked hard to get to that point, but he still worked at Star-Crossed at the end of the day, helping out the family business instead of following his own ambitions. Carlos was quiet, and caring, and the spitting image of their father.

Lance pushed the thought of _him_ out of his head before he could dwell on that particular ghost.

 _Hey, Lance, Pidge is up in your room. Mama and Rica went to try and find a cheaper place to get fresh produce, and Joana took Nico out for a walk. You’re on Izzy duty,_ Carlos signed.

Lance groaned, but he knew it was coming. Pidge could have only meant one kid when she said his sister was hanging on her; Joana and Rica were both twelve, and the same size as Pidge besides, and Nico was male. _Thanks, Carlos,_ he replied sarcastically. _Next time_ I _get to run the empty restaurant and_ you _get to tame the wild beast._

Carlos winced at the reminder of their financial situation; the restaurant was indeed empty, but it wasn’t exactly rush hour. It was around 3-ish, so not a whole lot of people would be eating anyway, but the empty room only served as a metaphor for their empty coffers.

 _Yeah, well, it’s getting kind of depressing sitting in this silent room where the paint is peeling and the tables are stained, and no one’s coming in and it just represents our lousy situation._ Suddenly Carlos’s face was screwed up like he was about to cry, and Lance was immediately behind the counter at his side. _Because we don’t have any money and we can’t refurbish this place and no one is coming, and we’ve got four little kids to support and how are we going to do it if no one freaking comes in?_ Lance was suddenly glad that the place was empty so that Carlos could have some privacy. He was usually so levelheaded… Lance didn’t know what had caused him to flip out like this, but he wanted to make whatever it was go away as soon as possible.

Lance wrapped his long arms around Carlos, trying to comfort him with the simple display of physical support. Carlos buried his face in Lance’s shirt, holding his hands out to sign one final, shaky sentence.

_Why did Dad have to leave?_

And that, right there, was the root of the whole freaking problem, the whole reason they were struggling so much, the question that Lance had formed his life around. He was strong for his siblings because they had no father, he was doing what he had to do because his father hadn’t done what _he_ had to, he was protective because he was not letting anyone else hurt his family like his own father already had. His disease may have taken his hearing, but his father’s leaving had really left the scar.

Carlos didn’t cry, just shook into Lance’s chest, as Lance murmured wordlessly to him. Carlos was so strong, so quiet, so sweet and gentle and always there for anyone who ever needed help, and his falling to pieces broke Lance’s heart. Lance needed to learn what had caused this breakdown, but he wasn’t about to ask right in the middle of it.

Suddenly his eyes alighted on the tupperware that Hunk had given him. Maybe something in there…?

He gently disentangled himself from Carlos, who looked at him with wide, curious eyes. He picked up the container and pried off the lid. A muted scent wafted up; the box was stacked with brownies, clearly not freshly baked but definitely still good, and almost certainly still delicious. He handed a corner piece to Carlos, who took it hesitantly. He himself grabbed a center piece, taking a bite.

Dang, it was good. Maybe not cookies-fresh-out-of-the-oven good, but it was still a dense square of chocolatey goodness that Lance devoured in about two seconds. Carlos had also taken a bite, his eyes wide. Brownies may not have been able to heal their problems, but they could at least very effectively distract from them.

Lance had just reached for another when he felt a large vibration through the floor and Carlos glanced upwards. _Loud, inexplicable crashing noise?_ Lance signed, and Carlos nodded. He sighed, snagged one last brownie (maybe for Pidge, if Lance could control his temptation long enough), rubbed Carlos’s back, and gave a quick wave. Carlos, left alone with brownies and his own tough mind, would be able to recover. But whatever damage Pidge and Izzy were doing to the furniture would not.

Naturally they were in his room.

On the second floor, his room was sort of cramped and smaller than most of the rooms, but he didn’t have to share it and it had a view of the street outside. Plus, it was close to the bathroom, and Lance spent a lot of time in there doing his various skin care routines. Today, the door had been flung wide open so the carnage could be easily viewed by any passerby.

Pidge was sprawled on the cot, mouth open as if moaning, as Izzy sat on top of her. Izzy was pouting, her bottom lip stuck out and her arms crossed, as if _she_ was the one being sat on and not the other way around. A soundboard was lying facedown on the floor, propped slightly up by a microphone under it. That must have been what had fallen over and caused the crash, and Lance was suddenly filled with a desire to strangle Izzy. If any of the new equipment had broken…

He made a growling noise in his throat, and Izzy immediately zeroed in on him, affecting the sad puppy eyes she knew worked so well. But it wasn’t going to work _this_ time, no sir. Not when the sound equipment Pidge and him had fought for months to get was at stake.

The brownie, which was now slightly crushed after he had clenched his fists upon seeing the room, he brandished in front of Pidge. Izzy made a grab for it, but Pidge snatched it hungrily and inhaled it in two bites. She mouthed something, an insanely grateful look on her face, and quickly signed _Thanks, I needed that. Now get this thing off of me!_

Lance chuckled and complied, lifting the sulking Izzy easily off of Pidge’s chest and setting her on the floor, far away from the soundboard. _Sit, and if you’re good, you can have a brownie,_ he signed to her. Izzy had been learning ASL ever since she was old enough to talk, because by then the family had gotten the news that Lance was going deaf. She didn’t understand super long phrases, and her little fingers struggled to do some of the more complicated signs, but she could still communicate with Lance. He could distantly dredge up a faint memory of her voice, albeit her voice when she was barely one.

Izzy nodded, still pouting, but sat quietly in the corner. She must have known Lance was as good as his words with promises involving sweets. Once he had said that he would bring home an entire cake if she could not talk for a whole two hours (his other siblings reffed, of course), and sure enough, Lance had come home from school the next day with a white cake box. It helped his generosity that generally if he brought sweets, he also benefitted.

Problem Uno solved, he turned to Pidge. _Is this it?_ Lance signed, motioning to the soundboard and mic on the floor.

Pidge rolled her eyes, still sprawled out despite the weight of the small child having been lifted. _Nah, that’s just the random soundboard I hauled in here up a flight of stairs while playing the monkey bars for your wild little sister. Oh, and the microphone I brought since I love karaoke so much._

_Thanks for the sarcasm._

_Any time._

Lance rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. _So, how’re we going to set this up?_

Pidge sat up, a light in her eyes that always sparked whenever anyone talked about electronics. _Well, I figure we’d better do it for real in the music room, with Allura, but we should run a test in here to make sure it works… especially after Izzy knocked it over,_ she signed, glaring briefly at the girl, who was still sitting quietly on the floor. Lance figured she’d been good enough for long enough, and if they were going to get down to it they needed her out of their hair.

He gently patted her shoulder. _Iz? Go downstairs and bother Carlos for a brownie. Tell him I told you you could have one._ She grinned, a big toothy smile, and scampered out of the room. Pidge watched her go with narrowed eyes, probably resisting the urge to yell “Good riddance!” after her. But Pidge had experience dealing with Lance’s various siblings; she had been his only friend for years, and she was a good friend of the family, no matter how annoyed she acted.

 _Okay. Now that that’s done, help me get this started,_ Pidge signed, and started working on getting the soundboard prepped at lightning speed. She magically produced a pair of headphones and a laptop from nowhere, and typed away blazingly fast. Lance barely did anything but help plug in the mic and the soundboard, and go downstairs (and face Carlos’s glaring) to snag another brownie for her. She devoured it, and five minutes later she proclaimed that she was ready for the first test. _But keep it quiet, we don’t want Carlos or Izzy hearing much and coming up here to check on us._

_Yeah, okay._

Lance reached for the mic as Pidge sat in front of the soundboard, messing with the toggles like somehow she had learned in twenty minutes exactly how to use the piece of recording equipment. She had her headphones on, looked up, and nodded. Recording had started.

And Lance began to sing.

It was a simple tune, a short song that his mom had sung to him as a child. This test didn’t need to have anything of consequence recorded, but he liked the song. It had always reminded him of better times, of persevering until his problems were far behind him and he was in a better place because of it.

_Shoot for the moon, reach for the stars, write your own tune, the future is ours_

_Ours for the taking, if we just try, our future is waiting, waiting for us to just fly_

He was fairly sure she had come up with it herself, but that just made it even more important. Like somehow, even when he was three years old, she had known he was going to need this song in the future, that he was going to need its message. His mom had loved making up songs, writing lyrics whenever they sprung into her head. She had kept a notepad by her bedside for years in case she woke up with an idea. Lance couldn’t help but notice that the habit had stopped four years ago, that the notepad had disappeared, and that her voice no longer laced the hallways, even for his siblings to hear. But he wasn’t going to dwell on that now, of all times. He was just going to sing, sing her song, his song.

_So spread your wings, fly to the sun, the crowing bird sings, the future’s begun_

_And when the sun sets, ending the day_

_Never forget_

_Tomorrow’s not far away_

_Not far away…_

Lance trailed off on the last note, ending the song, filled with a strong sense of peace. It had been a long time since he had sung one of his mother’s songs, but he was planning on doing it much more often. They were simple, yes, but beautiful, and they somehow calmed him down better even than Hunk’s cooking. All his previous anxieties and worried feelings had been soothed, for the time being. He was content, and that was a very new and pleasant sensation.

Pidge hit some more keys and pushed some more buttons before looking up. _Got it!_ she signed, grinning with all the light of a happy Pidge that had just successfully figured out some new tech. Her expression softened for a second. _And, Lance… that was beautiful._

He averted his gaze from her tender expression. He couldn’t take her compliments, too. He… he was just the deaf kid. He wasn’t some kind of super star singer, or anything like that. Singing was just what he knew best, what connected him to the world, to his family. It was how he provided for them, supported them. He earned money by taking small gigs at local places, trying to help them out. He sang to ground himself, to help himself find peace. He sang because, as a musician, that’s what his father had taught him. He sang because his mother wrote songs that were so pure they needed to be shared. He sang in pain, and fear, and anger, and hope, and love, and joy.

He sang, because he hoped one day his father would hear it and follow it home.

He shook his head, trying to clear the memories before they could collect and form his greatest pain, the greatest ghost from his past. He couldn’t let them swamp him now, not when he was working on another way to banish them and help his _real_ family, the family his father had _abandoned._

Still, he couldn’t help the flood of glimpses of his past; sitting with his dad at a piano, matching what his father played note for note; lying in his mother’s lap, half-asleep, her voice washing over him as she wrote a new song, just for him; his father in the front row for his chorus concert; his parents, hand in hand, singing softly to each other in the kitchen as they danced, long after Lance should’ve gone to sleep; his father’s face, looking down at the newborn twins, euphoric and so proud it broke his heart; the same proud face staring up at him as he performed his first solo.

The same proud face leaving forever, too proud to stay with a son who couldn’t hear.

Lance choked back a sob, and Pidge looked up in alarm. There was genuine concern in her big brown eyes, which made Lance’s heart hurt even more, and added to his embarrassment. Look at him, breaking down when he was about to do something good for once, breaking down because he had gotten lost and wandered the graveyard of his past.

He rubbed his eyes, glad that the wetness was minimal. He had learned how to control his tears a long time ago. _I’m fine,_ he signed, before Pidge could ask. She looked like she wanted to reply, but Lance cut her off with a question. _How’d it come out?_

Pidge didn’t look convinced, but the mention of the sound test made her brighten. _Great! Sound quality is crystal clear. If you’ll lug this to school tomorrow, we can begin recording right away!_

 _Sure, Pidge. Sounds awesome,_ Lance replied, trying for a grin, but the best he could manage was a sad smile. _Want to stay for dinner?_

_Nah, I’m good. Mom’s already ticked that I spend most of the day out of the house, I should go home for dinner tonight. Tell the others hi for me._

Lance breathed a sigh of relief. For now, he just wanted to be alone, and he was 100% positive that Pidge knew it. He was so grateful for their friendship, and that she seemed to get what it was like to want to be left alone. He’d make it up to her later, somehow. If he had to buy her a cake, or go beg Hunk for more brownies, that’s what he’d do.

Because if it’s one thing that the years had taught him, it was that promises to those you loved were important.

That night, long after Pidge had left and the rest of the brownies had been devoured by his other siblings, Lance dreamed of a calm blue ocean wreathed in whale song.


	6. See the Light of Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which  
> 1\. Keith meets smol birb  
> 2\. And finally sleeps  
> 3\. Hunk meets a kindred spirit  
> 4\. Lance is still annoying  
> 5\. Birbs are loud  
> 6\. The past is pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crow, it's been forever. Procrastination coupled with the end of school has taken its toll on my production rate... mostly procrastination, if I'm being honest. I'd like to apologize for the uber-long wait; even I was getting impatient!  
> But, here it is, in all its glory: another chapter!  
> Hopefully the next one won't take so long... I mean, it's possible, but here's to hoping. Whatever happens, I'm definitely not giving up on this story (no matter how long it takes me and procrastination to write it).

Keith couldn’t sleep, which was typical. Keith could never sleep when he was supposed to, yet somehow in class his mind decided it was the perfect time to drift off. Probably because his classes were so _boring_ sometimes, and the teacher really didn’t know how to teach someone who couldn’t see. Pro tip: displaying the “very important” notes via a projector and not explaining anything _never_ helped.

But that’s why he slept on the lower bunk of the bed, despite him weighing much less than Hunk; he was so restless, nine nights out of ten he would get up and walk around, do _something_ besides lying in bed, begging his brain desperately to just let him _rest._ Because it very rarely complied, and it was easier to do something relaxing than actually sleep.

Which meant, of course, art.

He navigated silently out of their small bedroom, and into the bathroom. He had been keeping some of his paints in there, because that’s the room he was working on painting. The main room was done, full up of illustrations; their bedroom was pretty complete too, with a four-walled mural of the African savannah. Every night they slept with a pride of life-sized lions watching over them, five males and two females, from what he could remember of painting it. His favorite part, as always, had been the sky, with its great white whorls of clouds and ombre blue as it climbed toward the horizon.

That was probably what he missed the most; seeing the sky, the warm sunrise in the morning, the striking sunset in the evening, the bright blue sky and the starry night in between. The storm clouds, the wispy cirrus, the puffy cumulus. The rainbows after a storm, and the lightning during it. The easy certainty that came from looking up that there was always somewhere _else,_ no matter wherever he was at the moment. There was the open sky, there was space. There was freedom there, somewhere.

But now, there was freedom in other places. This apartment that they had fixed up over the years; Keith’s painting; Hunk’s meals, and his ever-present warmth, radiating like the sun; on the back of Lance’s moped, zipping along at speeds he had thought impossible on the tiny thing. He had found freedom elsewhere, compensation for the years he had been caged and sent between foster homes like a wild animal no one wanted.

Keith pushed back that thought into the dark recesses of his mind; he had gotten good at that over the years. Practice makes perfect, after all.

He reached the bathroom and sighed. He could practically see the half-done mural around him; an ocean, deep blues and greens and teals with vibrantly colored fish and corals. Keith had never seen the actual ocean in person, and he never would. But he had seen pictures of it, drawings that other people had done, and that was enough. Truth be told, water terrified him. His strongest sense, his hearing, was weaker underwater… the most important sense, to be able to know which way was up, had been lost to him years ago. The thought of being submerged, water pressing in on all sides, and him being lost to the darkness of it… well, it sent shivers down his spine.

This mural was a way to kick that fear in the teeth, by surrounding himself with water, albeit painted water, every time he entered the room. It was symbolic, in a way. But mostly it was just to relieve his tension through his art.

Pulling open the cabinet drawers that he had stuffed his tools in, he sifted through them, reading the Braille on the sides before emerging with a paintbrush and can of paint. It was a bright red-orange color, and he crouched on the right side of the toilet, where he was continuing a half-started illustration. Brushing his fingers carefully along the wall, he found where he had stuck little pieces of tape to mark the area, and ripped them off as he started to paint.

It was a merman, or at least it was going to be. Technically, it was _him_ in mermaid form, with a scarlet tail and rippling gills, dark hair floating around his face. He had hidden a merman Hunk elsewhere in the room, peeking out from behind the towels hanging off the towel rack. While Keith often painted realism, he did find a certain kind of solace in magical creatures; they didn’t really belong, they weren’t really accepted in everyday society, they were misfits and typically outcasts. Keith could relate.

And so, mermaids it was. The smooth, even brush strokes he took as he filled in the base for the tail calmed him. Painting was soothing, especially when it was repetitive and easy to envision, like he could see the colors on the wall as he added them. He had to take others’ words that anything he painted actually looked good, of course, and he hated that. But he trusted Hunk and Shiro; they’d never lied to him before, at least not that he’d been able to figure out.

Plus, Lance had said…

Keith shook his head, removing his brush from the wall so he didn’t accidentally smear anything. Thinking about Lance would just confuse him more. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the kid; just the opposite. He had had a great afternoon, one of the best in a while, from Lance’s singing to his moped to the cookie war. Hunk and Lance seemed to have really hit it off, he had gotten Lance’s number, and they had smiled and waved as they watched him go.

He just didn’t understand this boy. None of it made sense, none of it. Not the warmth that had exuded from Lance’s back as Keith had wrapped his arms around him on the motorcycle, not the sound of his wordless happy screeching as they tore down the street, not his beautiful singing when he wouldn’t speak a word, not his determination to compliment Keith when he clearly didn’t deserve it. They could only communicate through touch, or through a third party translating. Nothing could ever happen between them, and Keith was pretty sure Lance wasn’t even thinking that way. In fact, Keith wasn’t even sure _why_ he was thinking if Lance was thinking that way. Because Lance clearly wasn’t. And Keith clearly shouldn’t be.

He wanted to bang his head against the wall, but he didn’t really feel a strong desire to take a shower and rinse red paint out of his hair. Instead, he threw the brush in the sink and put a lid on the paint, jamming it back into the cabinet. But rather than going back to his bed, he quietly slipped out of their apartment and climbed up to the roof of the building. He sat down on the edge, his knees tucked into his chest, as he leaned against a random pillar or something protruding from the surface of the flat rooftop.

And he sat there, staring at nothing, letting the cool night wind blow across his face and through his hair, until the sun rose in the morning and the darkness behind his eyes became overwhelmed by the darkness of sleep.

* * *

 

“ _Hunk,_ ” Keith groaned. “Why do you _do_ this to me?”

It was Saturday, around noonish. Hunk had found Keith asleep on the roof and had carried him to bed, letting him finally sleep for a few hours before bodily forcing him out of bed and into a shower. Apparently, he had a “surprise” planned for them. They were going to do something “fun”, as “friends” often do. Keith wasn’t buying it, but he was currently sitting shotgun in Hunk’s old SUV and couldn’t do anything about it.

“Because if you had it _your_ way, you’d be a hermit, live in a cave, and never have any contact with human life.”

“Pssh. I don’t _need_ human life. It’s overrated. Give me wild animals and cryptids over humans any day.”

“Yeah, ‘cause _Mothman_ is really great company.”

“At least he wouldn’t drag me to who knows where without _telling_ me anything! And I know you have an insufferably smug grin on your face right now, don’t try and deny it!”

“I won’t, because I do.”

Keith groaned, a long, drawn-out, drama queen sort of groan. It wasn’t really his style, but he couldn’t help it. He had had the first good night’s sleep in forever, and now Hunk was ruining his bliss by waking him up four hours too early to drag him somewhere that would almost certainly not fit his criteria for “fun”.

“Quit being such a big baby. I know _for sure_ you’ll enjoy this. We both will.”

“You don’t know anything about me, unless we’re going to find a nice cave that I can move to.”

Keith could practically hear Hunk rolling his eyes, but he didn’t reply. They’d been on the road for about ten minutes now, and Keith was getting antsy. Where the hell was Hunk taking them? If he didn’t get an answer soon, he was pretty sure he would burst. That, or become the world’s first blind backseat driver and forcibly pry the wheel from Hunk’s grasp and drive them back to their safe, quiet, distinctly un-fun apartment.

A minute or two passed–a century to Keith–before they finally slowed. It felt like Hunk was parallel parking instead of pulling into a spot, so that meant it was probably some storefront on some little road or something, one of those cutesy little shoppes or cafes that cluster in rows along mainstreets. Keith could already imagine the floral prints, the pastel colors, the cheesy-but-cheery shop names. _I swear to God, if Hunk dragged me to anywhere with dainty little napkins or cross-stitched kittens, I will puke in his car._

“ _Now_ will you tell me where we are?” Hunk didn’t reply, and Keith could only assume he was shaking his head and smirking. This was really getting irritating; it had started out irritating when Hunk woke him up, continued to be irritating throughout the experience, and now the irritation had really reached a new height. “ _Hunk_. Please.”

“Let’s just say I found a cool new restaurant and I’m forcibly dragging you to it.”

That shut Keith up. Hunk had the best taste in food of anyone he had ever met. If he was taking Keith to a restaurant, his tastebuds were about to sing. “What’s it called?”

Hunk must have heard the fight leaving Keith’s voice, because he gave a little snort. “Star-Crossed. It’s a Cuban restaurant with a space theme.”

Keith raised his eyebrows. “That’s kind of weird.”

“Yeah, well, Chick-fil-A is a chicken restaurant whose mascot is a cow, and McDonald’s mascot is a clown and their symbol is golden arches. You still eat there.” Keith could practically hear the distaste in Hunk’s voice when he said that; Hunk had a known dislike of fast-food chains. He’d rather make his own food, go to an “actual restaurant,” or go to a little local place. Keith, however, had no qualms about where he ate when it came to junk food. As long as it was fast, and it was food, he really couldn’t care less.

“You have a point. So, are we going to go into this Cuban-space place or stand outside while you lecture me about my eating habits and how they’re going to land me in an early Hell?”

Keith could practically see Hunk’s grin of triumph. “Follow me, my friend.”

A little bell dinged as they walked in, but Keith didn’t pay it any attention as his nose was suddenly assaulted by a variety of fragrant aromas, all campaigning for olfactory dominance. It smelled _really good_ … maybe not Hunk’s cookies good, but better than most restaurants Keith had ever been in.

“Hello! Welcome to Star-Crossed,” came a warm female voice from the back of the room. “Are you dining in or carrying out?”

“Hello, ma’am. We’re dining in, I guess. And is that smell, uh, ropa vieja?” Hunk asked.

“Why yes, it is! Would you like a sample? Today’s been kind of slow, we have some extra we can spare.”

“That’d be great; can my friend have some too?” Keith heard Hunk start to walk forward, toward the woman’s voice, and he followed, trying to avoid bumping into tables and chairs as he went.

“Of course!” she said. “Now, if you don’t mind me asking, how’d you find this place?”

“Well, ma’am–”

“Oh no, please call me Valentina.”

“–Ms. Valentina, I have a friend who recommended it.” Keith made a face. A friend who recommended it? As far as Keith knew, Shiro had never mentioned the place, and _Keith_ sure never had. What friend was he talking about?

Unless he meant Lance, but Hunk had had approximately one meeting with him, and Keith didn’t remember anything about restaurants. But maybe if Hunk had texted him…

That must be it. Hunk had texted Lance for… _something,_ and they had roundaboutly started talking about food, and Lance had mentioned this place. And Hunk had gotten the bright idea to drag Keith here, as a “surprise.” _Thanks, Lance._

“Oh, what’s their name, dear? I probably know them, if they come regularly.”

“Er… his name’s Lance.”

“Oh! That’s my–that is to say, he comes often. Umm… here, try a bit of ropa vieja, and then you can order.” Hunk had stopped walking, presumably reaching for a sample of some Cuban dish; Keith really didn’t quite know what was going on. That’s why he’d rather just stay at his apartment. There, he knew for sure where everything was and what was happening. In new places, he was never quite sure of the lay of the land; he had to rely on others to guide him and lead the way. It irked him to no end, but there was nothing he could do about it besides learn the place inside and out, and that didn’t really make sense if he was only going to visit the place once in his life.

“Here, dear,” Valentina said, and Keith flushed. He knew she must be holding something out to him, but he wasn’t about to flail blindly around searching for it. He hated this part; absolutely hated it.

“Er… umm… ma’am, I’m blind.” He had his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, looking at the ground, trying to keep his face from coloring. It wasn’t _his_ fault he was blind, but he always felt like he had something to be ashamed of whenever he had to explain it to other people. It was silly, he knew; no one could blame him for blindness, and if anyone did they were a bigger idiot than he was, but he couldn’t help it.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “That makes sense. I’m sorry, I’m overreacting… here, just hold out your hand, I’ll give you the sample.” Keith stuck his hand out, and he felt something in a little plastic cup being placed in it. “There, dear. Now try that, and then order. I have a menu in Braille here somewhere…” Then there was the sound of her bustling around, searching for something, softly humming.

As Keith took a bite, he decided he liked Ms. Valentina. She may have seemed a little surprised at first, but who wouldn’t? Then she took it in stride, accommodating him and helping him. She didn’t make out his blindness as some crippling factor that disabled him beyond what people who could see could comprehend; she just tried to make sure he would be able to do what he needed to do. That made sense, given that she knew Lance. She was probably accustomed to people who had different needs.

And he sure liked whatever the stuff in the cup was. Ropa vieja, Hunk had said? Something like that? Whatever it was, it was dang good. Valentina seemed as talented a cook as Hunk was, at least from what Keith could tell from the sample. It was warm and beefy, with some vegetables he couldn’t place, and the flavors seemed to dance and mingle on his tongue. It was delicious. No wonder Lance ate here often.

He could hear Hunk making pleased noises. “Ms. Valentina, this is _good._ Like, really good. I don’t know much about Cuban cuisine, but did you–” And then he went off, talking about some cooking jargon Keith didn’t understand and didn’t particularly care to. Ms. Valentina answered him back in the same cryptic language, saying something about slow cookers and browning, and Keith stood there as he waited for the tide of cookery-speak to ebb.

When they finally seemed done, Keith added “Ms. Valentina, I don’t know anything about what you just said, but it _was_ really good.”

“Aww, thank you. Now, would you like to order? I found that menu I was talking about.”

“Ma’am, I think I’ll just have the ropa vieja.”

“Alright, one order of ropa vieja. And you?” she said, turning to Hunk.

“Umm… wow, it all looks really good, I don’t understand how your restaurant is empty right now… I’ll have the fricase de pollo?”

“Of course, dear. It’ll be done in two shakes, if you both will take a seat.” Then there was the sound of her walking away, and clattering pots and pans and things as she filled their orders. Keith waited for Hunk, who tapped him on his hand and subtlely guided him through the minefield of tables and chairs to a seat.

Keith sat, hyper aware of the hard, rough wooden chairs that probably had peeling paint of no paint at all. While Ms. Valentina’s cooking skills were incredible, it was clear she was making just enough money to get by. He hadn’t heard a single customer in their time there, and he had to bet that the lack of people had gone on for a while.

“So Hunk… Lance recommended this place?”

“Err… yeah, he did.” Hunk sounded awkward, as if he wasn’t prepared to be confronted about the subject. “I asked if he knew any good places to eat, since I was dragging you out of your hermit cave for once, and he told me about here. Thought it sounded good so I decided to give it a try.”

“Well, I think you made a good choice.” Keith cast a blind glance over at the counter, where Ms. Valentina was humming and cooking and fussing around her kitchen. He lowered his voice. “She needs whatever business she can get.”

He heard Hunk give an audible sigh, sad and slow. “Yeah. I know.” He sounded old and tired in that moment, and Keith felt every ounce of the weight Hunk was feeling. They may have been two barely-adults sharing an apartment and scraping by however they could, but Ms. Valentina was in an infinitely worse spot. She probably had children, a family to support. Keith… well, he only had himself to take care of. Only himself to provide for, to protect. He had a hard shell around himself because he had never had anyone to let in, and see the softer, more vulnerable core inside him.

Well. He had Hunk.

And he had had his parents.

Keith unconsciously rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ignore the itch of his hands under his gloves. That always happened when he thought of his parents, and the accident that took them. He had yet to control the ever present itch, but he wasn’t sure he particularly cared to. It at least guaranteed that he would never be able to forget the mark that day, and the people in it, had made on him.

Even now, allowing himself to think about it for the first time in weeks, his fists clenched thinking about the day. It had been a perfectly normal drive, they were going home after attending the opening of the new wing of the art museum. Keith’s parents, while they weren’t artists themselves, tried to introduce him to new branches of it and expand his reach. They were so supportive of his passion it made his heart throb.

But it had been so normal, so ordinary, just a regular drive with his mom at the wheel and his dad shotgun. The sun had set only a couple minutes ago, so the horizon was still aglow with pinks and purples, fading into navy blue and black as the stars came into focus. All of the rules of the road were being followed; their headlights were on, they stopped at red lights, they used their blinkers. But it hadn’t mattered. A drunk driver had still come caroming down the street, speeding through a long-red light, smack into the side of the car. The crash threw it, knocking it onto its side and into a street lamp, which cracked and fell atop it.

Keith could remember blurrily the pain as his world seemed to go up in flames and shattered glass. He could hear muffled screams and sirens, piercingly loud. He could remember the stabbing pain in his eyes, and along the back of his neck and his legs and arms. He remembered someone dragging him, half conscious, from the burning vehicle before he passed out and woke up later to hospital lights and social workers, offering condolences for his loss. He remembered wanting to scream at them, to punch them all. He didn’t want _condolences._ He didn’t want _apologizes_ or _sorries_ or _theywillbemissed’s._ He wanted his _parents_ back.

“Uh, Keith? You in there, bud?” Hunk’s voice brought him back from the grief and the memories of that night. He couldn’t think about that right now without breaking down or screaming or lashing out at the nearest human/piece of furniture.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m here.”

“Okay. Good.” Hunk sounded worried, but he dropped the subject. That was one of the things Keith really appreciated about him; he always knew when to quit and when Keith really just wanted to be pressed a little bit more. Which, you know, wasn’t that often. He generally actually wanted people to just bug off. “And, uh, there’s another reason I brought you here…”

“Yeah? What is–”

“BOO!”

Keith jumped out of his chair, knocking it over, turning to face wherever the voice came from. Who the hell…? It couldn’t’ve been Lance, that was someone talking. Who…?

Then he heard laughter, from three separate parties. One was coming from behind him, easily identifiable as Hunk. The other… oh. It was Lance. Keith fought back against the heat climbing up his neck into his face. But who was the third?

“Hey–sorry dude, Lance dared me–but your face was pretty hilarious I gotta hand it to you…” a female voice that Keith vaguely recognized from one of his classes choked out her words past her laughter. “But anyway, my name’s Katie, but don’t call me that. I go by Pidge.”

“Pidge?” Keith couldn’t help asking.

“Yeah. Pidge.” Her tone silently added “Yeah, what about it?”

“Er, cool name.”

“I mean your friend there goes by Hunk. That’s not exactly normal either.”

Keith had to give her points for that. “True. But how do you know Hunk?”

“Lance texted him the other day, and asked him if you wanted to come here for lunch tomorrow. I always come over for lunch Saturdays, so I was told about you guys. And, you know, dared to scare you. It’s cool.”

Despite the fact that Pidge had willingly participated in one of Lance’s crazy schemes to get him, Keith couldn’t help liking her straight off. She had a certain way about her that Keith could appreciate. “Yeah. We’re cool. Do you have a piece of paper, so I can talk to Lance?”

“Oh, I’ve been translating this whole time. I know sign language. Just keep talking and I’ll keep signing it to him.” Keith raised his eyebrows, though he didn’t know why he was surprised. They were close friends, clearly. It made sense that she would know sign language to communicate.

He turned to where he thought Lance was. “You, on the other hand, I’m not so cool with. This is the second time you or one of your cronies–”

“Hey!”

“–sorry Pidge, _allies_ , has decided it would be a good idea to either jump _at_ me or cause _me_ to jump. May I ask why?”

“He says that your face when you’re freaked is pretty hilarious and it’s too hard to pass up a golden opportunity. Also, Hunk, he says it’s your turn next.”

“Oh no, I’m not next on his target list. Have you seen the collection of knives he keeps in our room? Nuh-uh, not gonna become a pincushion. Sorry Lance.”

“He says, fine, your loss. Freaking Keith out is a very enjoyable pastime.”

“I vote no, for that? Freaking Keith out is a pastime that will end up with someone’s room graffitied and someone pinned to the wall with knives sticking out of their clothes.” Keith added, but he had to fight to hold back a grin. He’d never had this many people to banter and joke around with, never this many–dare he say it?–friends to just talk to. It felt good, good and warm… kind of like the warmth Keith pressed up against Lance, riding his motorcycle, but no way he was telling Lance that. He already had a big enough ego, and Keith was at least a tad genuinely annoyed at him for the Pidge Stunt.

“I can vouch for that. He’s a killer with spray paints.” Hunk added, and Keith smirked. He knew what Hunk was about to tell them next. “Once, the librarian wouldn’t let Keith in because, in the eloquent words of the librarian, ‘The kid’s blind. He can’t read, what’s he want with books?’ The next day, there were black prison bars sprayed around the entire library building, with words over the door that read ‘Book Prison, enter if you dare and are physically able to see things yourself, forget about audiobooks or helping out a friend,’ and ‘Lair of the Discriminatory.’ He got called to the vice principal’s office, almost expelled, but when they couldn’t conclusively prove it was him, he got let off with a very harsh warning. Ever since then, though, Keith has been allowed into the library whenever he pleased.”

Pidge whistled. “ _You’re_ the one who did that! God, I remember the first time I saw it. I was walking with Lance and we fell over laughing. Prorok’s so absolutely disgusting as a human being… that was so great. Props to you. Lance says so too.” Keith realized Lance was laughing, but not at him for once. It was… a nice feeling, a nice sound, his laughter. Hunk was chuckling too, and Pidge was still silent in awe.

“Yeah, it was pretty funny. Too bad for the next few weeks Zarkon would randomly call me into his office to check if I had spray paint cans in my backpack. Missed a test that way.”

“Lance says, ‘what’s a missed test to one of the greatest revenge pieces ever pulled?’”

“Thanks. I don’t know about ‘greatest revenger pieces’ though.” Keith replied, trying to avoid thinking about the compliment. He doesn’t need any compliments, especially not from _this_ boy.

“It was pretty great, Keith,” replied Pidge.

“Yeah, I gotta side with them, buddy,” added Hunk, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Lance wants to know if you guys wants to come with him. Says he’s got something to–”

“Food’s ready! Come and get it while it’s hot, niños!” Ms. Valentina’s voice rang out. Keith had almost forgotten she was there, she had been quiet for so long. He had actually forgotten they were even in a restaurant, even. Now, his stomach reminded him wholeheartedly.

“Eat first, talk later,” Hunk said, and went up to get their food.

“Gotta agree with him.” Keith said, feeling Lance and Pidge’s gazes on him.

“Can’t say I blame you. Ms. Valentina is a whiz. FYI, I will be stealing some of your food.”

“No problem, Pidge. I wouldn’t expect any less.”

“Also, Lance is coming up behind you with his hand outstretched and a smirk on his face.”

Keith whirled around, bringing his hand through the space in front of him. It sliced through empty air, which was quickly filling with the sound of Pidge snorting and Lance chuckling. He sighed, but in reality he was struggling hard against the smile threatening to creep onto his face. He heard Hunk come back, two trays of steaming, heavenly smelling food in his hands, and he heard him make outraged noises as Pidge and Lance descended, trying to snatch a bit from the plates. He heard them laughing, them all laughing, and he could practically see their smiles.

Maybe things were looking up after all.


	7. Hear No Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which  
> 1\. Lance is relieved  
> 2\. Hunk is a proud father  
> 3\. To a piece of machinery  
> 4\. Pidge is a cursing kindergartener  
> 5\. A sound studio is formed  
> 6\. And it has a Keith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again!  
> Just a few notes about this chapter:  
> The song Lance sings is "My Boy Build Coffins" by Florence + the Machine. I recently remembered one of her songs so I listened to the album, and I got hooked. (I also found a couple songs that kind of actually worked with my storyline? So prepare to see this band again later on...)  
> This chapter may not have a lot of action in it, but I think it has some important character development and relationship building, plus what happens now lays the building blocks for the climax.  
> And just, if you're reading this, it means you've stuck with this story for seven chapters. Thank you!

Lance couldn’t believe how well they all meshed. He had been really nervous about everything going smoothly, about Keith or Pidge or Hunk disliking  _ someone _ . Up until today, he had been the only person in the foursome that knew everyone, and he was terrified about being the only one who liked everyone else.

Thank God that hadn’t happened.

Pidge practically took to them as soon as she met them, and it was clear Keith and Hunk liked her as well. She literally scared Keith out of his wits, albeit at Lance’s behest, and Lance could still see him smile slightly when he talked to her after. And Hunk was like a big ball of sunshine; how could he dislike anyone?

And they both seemed to love the food, and the restaurant, and his mother, even. Of course, Lance thought his mother was just about the best, strongest person ever, but he didn’t really expect others to feel that way. But Keith and Hunk had accepted her as easily as anyone else. Keith even smiled at her. Lance didn’t know he did that.

He realized he hadn’t told Keith that she was his mother, though, when he asked where they were going after they ate and started climbing the stairs.

_ He asked what we’re doing, _ Pidge signed.  _ You want to tell him this is your family’s restaurant, or should I? _

_ I got it, Pidge. You just translate.  _ She nodded, tapped Keith’s shoulder and said something to him. He looked at Lance, his head cocked in curiosity.

_ So, this is my mom’s restaurant. That was her down there. It might not be the nicest looking place, but we’re proud of it. My family lives above it–my mom, two brothers, and three sisters. And me, _ he added as an afterthought.  _ And… yeah, that’s about it. _

Keith’s face contorted in surprise, and Lance could practically hear him exclaiming  _ what?! _

_ He says “what?!” _

Lance rolled his eyes.  _ Thanks, Pidge. _

_ No problem. _

Keith’s expression changed from surprise to something gentle Lance didn’t recognize. He started talking, almost tentatively, and Lance was instantly worried about what he was saying.

_ Uh… Keith’s asking what it looks like. _

_ What? _

_ He says “You said it’s ‘not the nicest looking’. What’s it look like?” _

Lance closed his eyes and grimaced. There was something all too innocent and saddening in this boy asking what a place looked like, because he couldn’t see it and never would. Like his own asking what a voice sounded like, just so he could give it a better sound in his own head. It was like reading a script and never watching the movie; he had no idea what people sounded like, other than those he had heard before.

But further than that, Lance didn’t want to tell him. Whatever Keith had been envisioning, with the enticing smells and the delicious foods and kind matron, it had to be better looking than how it actually appeared. Because, no matter how much he and his mother and his siblings cared for the place, it was practically their only source of income and not exactly doing well. They could barely afford to keep it open, and yet they couldn’t afford to close. There wasn’t enough money to replace the peeling wallpaper over the coal black wall, or the chipped wood tables and chairs, or get a new sign or window decorations or tidy up the counter and kitchen. There was barely enough money to buy food, both for their family and to feed their customers. 

Public schooling had been a blessing, because they could no longer afford to pay for any lessons for the younger kids. While the offered electives weren’t much, they were still a reprieve for all the McClain children to find a skill that they enjoyed and hone it.

Not that Lance had been allowed chorus as an elective; but Allura had been a blessing sent straight from heaven.

Lance sighed and opened his eyes, trying to ignore the other three’s worried gazes. Pidge likely knew full well what he was thinking about… and after Hunk had seen the state of the restaurant, it was probable that he was getting it too. Only Keith had no idea, and Lance didn’t want to give him one. But still. He had asked, and Lance wasn’t about to lie to him; especially not when Hunk would probably just tell him the truth later.

_ It’s not the nicest, like I said. The wallpaper is peeling; it’s been up for years now. Under it is plain black paint that whoever owned the building before had up. The tables are kind of scuffed and stained, and the wood is splintering. Same with the chairs. Our sign outside is missing a couple letters, and the windows are somehow constantly dirty no matter how much we clean them. The counter is plain wood with sauce stains, and a gray cash register the sole occupant. But, it’s okay, the food is good. It doesn’t look _ that  _ bad. _

Keith didn’t look like he bought Lance’s last-ditch effort to convince him everything was okay; his eyebrows were drawn and he had a pensive expression on his face, like he was considering a problem and a possible solution. Lance hadn’t honestly expected him to. The couple reassurances he had slapped on at the end sounded hollow to him as well, and based on the pained look on Pidge’s face and the worried look on Hunk’s, they had picked up on it too.

_ Okay, but anyway. At this rate a snail would have gotten to my room faster. Come on, _ Lance signed, and continued up the stairs. He could only imagine they were talking about him, in quiet tones with worried glances, but Lance didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want their pity. It would only drag him down, and he had no choice but to reach higher.

Moments later, they were all crammed in his slightly cramped room. There was about enough room for two twin beds laid side by side, but Lance just had a small cot. He had given his bed to Izzy a long time ago; he didn’t need a lot of room to sleep anyways. He had gotten used to either sleeping sprawled on the floor or curled up, tucking his knees to his chest in an attempt to make himself as small as possible. Besides, if he hadn’t given away his bed, he wouldn’t have ever been able to sleep knowing his family was crammed together, needing the extra bed he had. He had never told anyone; he had just moved it when everyone was out and he was minding the shop and found an old cot in a closet. Izzy had never asked about it, and his mother had never commented on the cot in his room, but he knew they knew, and were grateful.

Pidge pulled the sound equipment out from under the cot, and they gathered around it in a circle like some sort of cult during a weird, recording-based ritual.

_ Okay, _ Pidge signed as she spoke.  _ This is our sound equipment. It took us forever and a day to save up for it, so break it and I’ll break you.  _ Lance nodded to accentuate that point. It was likely Keith and Hunk were much more careful than his five-year-old whirlwind of a sister, but he wasn’t positive. Keith looked like he knocked things over when he got excited… possibly with a knife.

_ We’re… making a recording. A sort of fundraiser, if you will. And I want you guys to help me with it. Hunk, you’ve got tech class, right? _

Hunk nodded, and said something that Pidge translated.  _ Yep. Fifth period, with Mr. Holt. Cool guy. _

_ Yeah. He’s my dad. Good with computers, likes peas and the space program. Dislikes the color purple and government lies. _

Hunk started.  _ Really? He’s your dad? That’s awesome! He’s my favorite teacher!  _ Pidge translated, all while looking vaguely awkward. Before Hunk could continue geeking out over her apparently famous-in-the-nerd-world dad, Keith lightly swatted his shoulder, nodding back at Pidge. She said something in return, most likely thanks, before she continued signing.

_ Anyway… do you think you could help me with this? For some reason, it shorts out whenever I toggle the volume. You’re more of an engineer than I am; do you think you can figure it out? _

_ We tried bringing it to school the other day to record in the music room, but whenever Pidge messed with it it would cut out and stop working. It was after school, and no one was there but Allura and us, and Allura understands iPhones. Not much else. _

_ Actually, I’m pretty sure she has more technical sense in her pinky finger than you do in your entire body, Lance,  _ Pidge replied.  _ But yeah. She couldn’t figure it out. _

_ Excuse you,  _ he signed.  _ I read rocket magazines. I know what I’m doing. _

_ Yeah, yeah, Lance, _ she replied.  _ But space ships aren’t the same as sound boards.  _ She turned to Hunk, signing as she spoke.  _ Anyway, do you think you can help? _

Hunk nodded, and started talking.  _ Sure, no problem. Can I take a look? _ Pidge translated, and both she and Lance nodded in reply. 

_ Go for it. We’ll owe you one if you figure it out. _

_ Nah, it’s no problem. Happy to help, _ he said, and crouched down by the sound board and removed the back panel, and started tinkering around.

Lance was watching him when Pidge lightly tapped his shoulder. She pointed to Keith, who was talking, and started signing.  _ So, what’s this about? Why do you need a sound board? _

_ Well… umm…  _ Lance didn’t particularly want to answer, for fear of what they would say. But they were his new friends, and one of them was helping him besides. Also, what could he even say as a lie? It wasn’t as if there was a lot of uses for a sound board.  _ I’m using them to– _ Keith’s expression suddenly lit up with understanding, and he started talking. While Lance could have continued, he just waited for Pidge to start translating and let Keith interrupt him.

_ Oh! You’re recording your singing! _

_ Yeah…  _ Lance replied.  _ We, uh, need the extra income. If I could make a recording and sell it, I know I’m no sound studio, but I could still make some more money. You know. Just to cover what the restaurant doesn’t. _ One advantage of sign language was no one could eavesdrop on you, unless they were also spying, and Lance always kept his door closed. That’s how Lance and Pidge had managed to avoid detection so far; his family couldn’t hear anything, despite the paper thin walls. All they would have heard was him singing.  _ And it’s kind of a secret, so talk quietly. _

Keith nodded, and there was a softness in his sightless eyes that made Lance self-conscious. He knew that Keith was 100% wondering how bad their financial situation was, and how bad the restaurant  _ really _ looked, despite Lance’s attempts to gloss everything over. Pidge knew everything, and Hunk could see it with his own two eyes, but Keith was left in the dark. Figuratively and literally. 

And Lance knew how that felt; horrible. But he didn’t want to drag another person into his painful life. He was going to help his family as much as he could, with as little people being affected as possible. He didn’t need Keith feeling bad for him when Lance was sure Keith had more than his share of problems too; there had to be a reason he lived with Hunk and not his family.

Keith started talking again, and Lance could practically hear his voice changing to be much more gentle.  _ How are you going to sell it? _

_ Allura knows a bunch of people; she’s going to try and get it out there. It’s probably going to be strictly digital or just burned on a CD, because we don’t have a whole lot of money to spend. But, if it falls through… _ He stopped himself there. That wouldn’t happen. It  _ couldn’t  _ happen. He swallowed, and he could see Keith’s concerned face, and he could barely stand it.  _ We’ll, uh, find other ways. I think business is picking up, now that we’ve settled in more. It’ll be totally fine, it’d just be nice if we could have something to fall back on.  _ Even though any money he could make on his recording wouldn’t be near enough if they lost the restaurant. But right now, he was prepared to lie his hands off before admitting anything was really wrong.

Even though Pidge could explain it later. Even if Hunk could see it plain as day. Even if he was as obvious as he felt.

Pidge had a stony look on her face as she translated, but Lance had no doubt she was relaying the lies no matter how much she wanted to tell them the truth. She respected his right to his own story completely; she wouldn’t tell them unless Lance set the ball rolling, and Lance was prepared to never move that ball at all.

Hunk’s face was blank as he worked, and it was clear he was trying to block out everything so he could concentrate but couldn’t quite do it. He heard every word, and he clearly knew the truth from the lies. He just wasn’t going to say anything, or ask anything he was afraid it wasn’t his place to. Lance appreciated the restraint.

But Keith. Lance didn’t know what he was ever going to say, or do. He painted masterpieces, but he graffitied the library when the librarian was a discriminatory jackass. He yelled with delight speeding down the streets, yet he rejected any compliments he fully deserved. He invited him over for cookies, and he dropped him on the floor. Keith was a mystery, one Lance wanted to try and figure out.

You know. Because Keith was a good guy.

No other reason.

As of yet, all Keith was doing was looking in his direction with a look of quiet worry on his face. Lance just prayed he didn’t ask anything that Lance wasn’t ready to answer.

He opened his mouth, and Lance had to consciously stop himself from wincing. But before Keith could continue, Hunk’s head popped up, and he had a triumphant grin on his face.

_ Got it! _ Pidge signed, in way of translation. Then, translating her own words, she continued.  _ How the quiznak did you do it so quickly? And with no tools? _

_ Let’s just say when I’m not motion sick I’m tinkering around with machines. _

_ Or cooking, _ Lance interjected.

_ Yeah. Or cooking,  _ Hunk agreed, grinning.

_ So it’s fixed?  _ Pidge asked.  _ It’ll work now? _

_ Yep! There was just a couple wires jarred loose that weren’t connecting with the main circuit. It was nothing. _

_ Nah, Hunk, that was really something. We really owe you one, _ Lance signed, beaming at him. He glanced at Keith, who was listening to the exchange with an odd expression on his face. Before he could figure out what it was, Pidge started signing and talking again, and both Keith and Lance’s attentions were drawn back to her.

_ So. You guys want to do a sound test? Now we’ve really got a crew: an engineer, a techie, a singer, and a Keith. What more do you need to run a sound studio? _

Keith smiled, but Lance could see full well the discomfort behind it. He didn’t feel like he belonged, that he was bringing much to the table. That he was just “the blind kid.” Well, Lance had been just “the deaf kid” for four years now. He knew how that felt, feeling like you weren’t worth it. Hell, he still felt like that. He never felt that he was such an amazing singer, that the compliments he received weren’t just pity. He never felt like he deserved Pidge or Allura or his supportive family, or now his new friends. But he didn’t want Keith to feel like that; Keith didn’t deserve to feel like that.

_ Yeah, _ Lance signed with a smile, looking at Keith even though he knew Keith couldn’t see it.  _ Every sound studio needs a Keith. To fight the idiot critics away with knives and spray paint. _

As Pidge translated, Keith looked up in Lance’s general direction. He smiled again, this one grateful and genuine and somehow both very Keith and like nothing he had ever seen from the boy at the same time.  _ Thanks,  _ Lance saw him mouth, and he was positive that he was only mouthing and not speaking. There were things meant to be private.

_ But, yeah, sure. I’m up for a sound test,  _ Lance signed.  _ Hunk, you stand by in case we need your technical ability.  _ Hunk nodded, grinning, and patted the sound board like a proud father before sitting against one of the walls.

_ Pidge, you sit on the cot in that criss-cross-applesauce kindergartener way you do with the soundboard in your lap like a computer monitoring the whole thing.  _ Pidge rolled her eyes, but as she lugged the equipment up on the cot she did indeed sit down cross-legged. She caught Lance grinning at her and signed a pretty nasty ASL cuss, causing his smirk to widen. Pidge cussing was like a little songbird suddenly belting out heavy metal band music instead of regular bird calls; unexpected and completely incongruent with their image.

_ Keith, you guard the door in case my siblings try and force their way in. I warn you; they’re wily foes. You’ll have to keep all your wits about you. Don’t fall for bribes or big doe eyes; it’s a trap, I assure you.  _ Keith had a stoic, battle-hardened look in his eyes and took his place at the door. He mouthed something Lance was pretty sure amounted to  _ Got it, chief, _ and flashed a thumbs-up before settling in in front of the closed doorway.

_ I’ll stand in the middle of the room like the center of attention I am and, you know, sing and stuff.  _ He was fairly sure Pidge groaned when he made the center of attention comment, but he made a point to ignore it. The more he joked, the easier it was to push away the reality of his situation and why it was so important. And the less the others would realize.

Especially Keith.

Because the more Keith realized, the more hurt he would feel, and hurt for  _ Lance _ , of all people.

Lance couldn’t have that. Not when he was sure this boy couldn’t stand much more pain.

He realized he wanted to know Keith’s story, possibly more than any other person’s he’d ever met. Lance had no idea what made him tick, what caused him pain, what caused his blindness. He had no idea why he lived with a friend instead of family. Hunk had told him when they were texting the other night why  _ he _ was living with Keith and not his parents; he was planning to go to a college around here, and his parents had advised him to leave earlier so the adjustment would be easier. They lived in Hawaii, apparently, and a raise for his mother had meant they could afford to send him, and after he found a roommate, they had shared the rent.

But that didn’t explain anything about  _ Keith _ , and while Lance didn’t expect Hunk to share anything, he still wished he had some clue. Hunk was clearly as good a friend as Pidge was; he wasn’t going to spill anything Keith didn’t want spilled.

But  _ God _ , was he  _ ever _ going to find out anything about this kid?

Pidge tapped him impatiently on the shoulder.  _ Come on, center of attention. Start show-stopping. _ She had her headphones on, and was apparently all ready for the sound test to start. He glanced at Hunk, who gave him a thumbs-up, and Keith, who was staring more or less in the center of the room, a bit off to the side of Lance. Lance swore he saw a faint smile on Keith’s lips for a microsecond, but then it was gone, and he must have imagined it.

He unconsciously stepped right into Keith’s sightless gaze, into the center of the room, and coughed into his fist. He had never sang for this many people he knew before, excluding his family. Hunk had never heard him; Pidge, of course, was different, and had already heard him many times besides; Keith had heard him only once, through a bit of eavesdropping. He didn’t feel prepared for this, and began to feel a little self-conscious. What would the other two think? Pidge he didn’t worry about; either she truly enjoyed his singing or was one hell of a liar.

His eyes met Pidge’s and her impatient gaze softened.  _ It’s okay, _ she signed subtly.  _ You’ll do great. You always do. _

Lance sighed and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He blew it out, then took another one, then blew it out again.

When Lance sang, he always chose whatever fit his mood and the audience around him. And he had remembered the perfect song, one he hadn’t thought about in years but had started loving ever since he had lost his hearing.

He took one last deep breath, and he started to sing.

_ My boy builds coffins with hammers and nails _

_ He doesn't build ships, he has no use for sails _

_ He doesn't make tables, dressers or chairs _

_ He can't carve a whistle cause he just doesn't care _

The obvious meaning behind the song was about death–what else does coffins scream? But Lance had always liked to think it had another meaning.

_ My boy builds coffins for better or worse _

_ Some say it’s a blessing, some say it’s a curse _

_ He fits them together in sunshine or rain _

_ Each one is unique, no two are the same _

He thought that this song was about living a life that wasn’t appreciated. About doing something that others wouldn’t care about. A dead person doesn’t care about their coffin; it’s a job for a dedicated person that doesn’t care what others think. And ever since he had met Keith, he realized that this was even truer.

_ My boy builds coffins and I think it's a shame _

_ That when each ones been made, he can't see it again _

_ He crafts everyone with love and with care _

_ Then it’s thrown in the ground and it just isn't fair _

Keith painted masterpieces he would never be able to see again, never be able to see in the first place. Lance sang songs he could never hear.

It just  _ wasn’t _ fair.

But there was nothing Lance could do about it but keep going as best he could, just as he had since his deafness struck. Eventually, something would click. Eventually, something would work out. It had to. Until then, at least he had his family… and his friends.

He slowly opened his eyes as he finished the song, scanning the room.

Pidge, predictably, was focused on the soundboard. Lance didn’t expect anything else from the tech junkie and head of his makeshift sound studio.

Hunk was staring at him, seemingly in amazement, and it warmed Lance’s heart. Hunk had never heard Lance singing before, and he was glad that he seemed to have enjoyed it. Bringing this cooking wizard a sensory experience like the one he had bestowed upon Lance with his chocolate chip cookies felt good, right. Hunk was a great guy, and Lance wanted him to enjoy life. If his singing could help with that, well, maybe it was good for something after all.

And Keith… his eyes were closed, and he had a quiet expression on his face that Lance struggled to place, for he had never seen the boy wear it before. But after a couple seconds of studying his face, and trying to figure out why it was familiar, Lance realized what it was. Bliss; total sensory euphoria.

Lance knew where he had seen that look before; on his own face, after stepping into Keith’s apartment and seeing the murals on all sides. It was like music to his eyes, and it seemed like Keith was experiencing art for his ears.

And as he watched Keith’s quiet enjoyment, even after his song was done, Lance realized one very real thing.

That bringing joy to that boy was one of the single most gratifying things he had ever done.

And it both scared him to death and warmed him to the bone.

* * *

 

Monday, Lance lugged in his sound equipment before first period with the help of a grouchy, tired Pidge. Pidge really shouldn’t stay up as late as she did, especially when it was a school night, but she really didn’t give a damn about the whole public school system. There were rumors she had gotten kicked out of her middle school for hacking into their mainframe–and then shown up the next day, disguised as a new student. And the school hadn’t figured it out, and she had graduated and went on her way. All at the age of fourteen.

Needless to say, Lance believed every word.

Allura wasn’t there, but she had left a note on the door in drawn out ASL:  _ The extra set of keys are behind the third brick to the left of the door on the bottom. I figured you might drop by with your equipment. Don’t worry, I’ll be back by the end of the day. With love, Allura. _

Lance sighed with relief; when he had first seen the dark door, he had been worried they were going to have to drag it back to Pidge’s dad’s SUV. Since Mr. Holt worked at the school, he always took Pidge to school in the mornings, and had not to this date mentioned anything about her getting a car, even though she was old enough. It drove Pidge nuts, but at least she could sleep/do homework on the ride to school in the mornings, time she sorely needed.

Instead, Pidge just pulled the brick free and grabbed the keys, opening the door. They both set the equipment to the side in Allura’s office and shut the door, because they  _ really  _ didn’t trust the other students to not wreck it if they left it anywhere halfway visible. Just as they walked out, re-locked the door, hid the keys, and ripped down the sign, Pidge motioned to him and kids started flooding the hallways. The bell had rung; time to begin another school day.

Lance couldn’t even pretend he was going to the actual lunchroom today… if Allura might not be there by lunch, he sure wasn’t throwing himself into the roiling chaos of the high school lunch line. Not when there was someon–some _ where _ else he wanted to see.

He found himself counting the minutes until 12:15, when he would get another taste of heaven and another glimpse of a mullet.

At this moment, at least, he could pretend that everything was going to work out.

And who knew? Maybe it would.


	8. Can't See Straight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which  
> 1\. Blackmailing may be illegal  
> 2\. But of course no one gives a damn  
> 3\. Keith is annoyed  
> 4\. And doesn't understand emotions  
> 5\. Except mutual hatred

Keith wasn’t planning on going to school tomorrow. Possibly that week. He was just too… confused. It didn’t make sense, nothing made sense. His own emotions right at the top of the list.

Whatever he was, he wasn’t  _ dense. _ He knew what Lance was getting at, singing that coffin song. Sure, death, the inescapable void, whatever meaning floats your boat. But Keith hadn’t become an artist by taking things at face value–there was always,  _ always _ a deeper meaning. To a painting, a song, a conversation, a relationship, a life.

Now if only Keith could find the important ones.

But that song–yeah, he knew what Lance meant by that, at least. There was literally a lyric about crafting things with love and care only to never see them again, and how it wasn’t fair. That didn’t exactly scream subtle. It was about  _ Lance,  _ it was about  _ him, _ and Keith had no idea how to take it. A beautiful song sung to him, about him, and he couldn’t wrap his freaking mind around it.

More than that, he couldn’t wrap his mind around  _ Lance. _

Who the hell was this boy? Was he the cocky showoff who jumped at a blind kid and bragged about being the center of attention? Was he the family boy, who sang to feed his siblings and mother and lived above their crumbling restaurant? Was he the beautiful singer, who took chorus though it wasn’t offered to him and had the voice of an angel? Was he the quiet protector, insecure about his own gifts even as he fought to make others feel worthy?

Was he the honest friend, who fought to include him and laughed at his pranks and made him feel wanted?

Keith couldn’t shove all of his personalities into one human; it was too much, too fast, too soon. None of it made sense, and Keith didn’t know how to _make_ _it_ make sense.

So he did the one thing he always did when the world threatened to envelop him with its boundlessness.

He painted.

It was around 2 o’clock in the morning, but he didn’t care. He never cared. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he didn’t get this out of his system.

Keith crept out of bed, careful not to wake the snoring Hunk, as he made his way to the roof. He had finished the bathroom mural awhile ago, but he was thinking about making some additions to it… another merman, and a mermaid, but his paints had been moved out of the bathroom and now wasn’t the time, anyway.

Right now, he was working on painting the rooftop floor. He hadn’t asked the permission of whatever idiot owned the apartment complex, but he figured if they didn’t like it, they could always slop a bucket of gray paint over it. He wasn’t quite sure why he had chosen that place, but he had, and now his project was well on its way to being completed.

It had started out a simple sky, a sky lit purple and red and orange-pink by the fading rays of an unpainted sun. But somewhere between starting the mural and finishing the sky, the sky had become simple background for the focal point: a fiery phoenix, wings spread in glorious flight and crowing at the sky, the sun, the infinite space and its possibilities.

He couldn’t see it, but innately he knew it was beautiful. There were few other things he could say that of.

It was almost done, too, and it had been a tricky process. Keith had to mark off any wet sections of paint with tape and shuffle his feet to avoid stepping in wet paint and tracking it all over the mural. He had brought a few stools up and set around it, and laid a tarp over them to protect the painting from the rain. He was planning to waterproof it with Hunk’s help when it was done, but for now a tarp and a prayer to the weatherman was going to have to be enough. And given that it hadn’t rained in days, Keith figured it was working.

He crouched by the taped area that marked its head, armed with a small brush, made for details, and sapphire blue paint. Keith had always imagined phoenixes with blue eyes; blue for the hottest flames, and blue for the water that put them out. Blue for contrast, for opposites. Blue for strength, and for beauty.

Blue because those were the eyes he envisioned, night after night, wrapped in his nightmares. The eyes that screamed at him for help before they went dull with flames wrapped around them.

If only he had had water then.

He stifled a strangled giggle at the outrageous thought. Water wouldn’t have made a dent in the damage the fire wrought. Those flames had been red, for anger and vengeance and unforgiving determination.

Red flames, blue eyes, purple sunset, crimson phoenix. None colors he could see, ever again. All colors ingrained in his memory.

He took a breath to steady himself before he painted the phoenix’s eyes; instead of anger, he tried to portray a different emotion in them, one that he admittedly relied on rarely.

Hope.

That was his message, hidden in a bird wrapped in fire soaring through the lilac sky. Hope that the next day would come and be better than the one before, that things would improve and maybe even begin to make sense. That when something was lost, something new would rise from its ashes.

Hope.

It was a strange message, coming from Keith Kogane, emo extraordinaire.

But it was a powerful one, nonetheless.

With a strange sense of peace settling in his chest, he re-covered the mural and climbed back down to his apartment, to his bed. The last time he had fallen asleep on the roof, Hunk had dragged him all around the town, and Keith didn’t want to give him another invitation.

_ Though, _ he thought as sleep began to drape its warm, dark shadows around him,  _ that hadn’t turned out so bad. _

The last thing he that ran through his mind before sleep claimed him was a Cuban boy, singing about coffins and his boy that built them.

* * *

 

The next day, Hunk did end up dragging him to Kaltenecker High, albeit practically kicking and screaming. It took logic and a bit of bribery, but Keith showed up for first period on time. He fought his way through music theory, history, Spanish (which he was hopelessly non-fluent in), and was just settling down to biology when a break from the mindless boredom finally appeared.

“Hey,” said a voice, coming from the desk next to him. It was a girl, someone he was vaguely sure was a bit of a flirt, somewhat fickle, and kind of annoying, named Nyma. “There’s a guy over there, waving at you. Don’t you see him?”

Yep, totally annoying.

He slowly took one of his hands and waved it in front of his face, unblinking, waiting for the embarrassed realization and hasty apology.

“Oh! You’re blind! I completely forgot, sorry. You don’t show it, though, that’s why I didn’t notice; you seem so confident walking around and everything, I mean–”

“Yeah, I get it,” Keith cut her off, sounding as annoyed as he felt. “Do you know the kid?” There were only a few people that would be waving at him, and if it wasn’t any of those then he was probably in trouble.

“He’s familiar, but I can’t remember his name. But he’s Hispanic, with brown hair and a hoodie. Tall, too. Recognize him?”

“Uh, I think–oh…”

It hit Keith like a bullet: he didn’t know what any of his new friends looked like. He knew Hunk from his friend’s descriptions of himself, and Shiro from the same. But any new people he met that he didn’t ask, he didn’t know. And he could never know completely, like people with eyesight could. Normally Keith could push that fact to the side, but now it faced him head on like a speeding train, and he was strapped to the tracks.

But the waving boy. It obviously wasn’t Pidge, but that didn’t detract from the fact that Keith had no idea what she looked like. He just imagined her like you would imagine a book character; a hazy picture based on the information given, which in his case was none. All he had to go on was her voice and various tech nerd stereotypes.

And Lance… he was Hispanic, probably Cuban based on his mother’s Spanish and their restaurant. And he didn’t speak, which would explain why the boy wasn’t calling his name. But if he was here, that would mean they had biology together, right? How had they never noticed each other?

But even as Keith asked himself, he knew the answer. With him not being able to see, and Lance not talking, Lance would have been like a ghost. Keith couldn’t have detected him in anyway other than if he had burst into song or bumped into him, neither of which had happened so far in biology class. Lance evidently hadn’t been looking for him in his classes, which made sense; he had assumed Keith  _ wasn’t _ in any of them, since they had never really conversed and they both kept to themselves. It made sense, but Keith had never really considered the implications before. Now, though, he did; they might have a class together. Might have multiple.

Nyma was silent, and Keith thought she might have turned away, but he had to ask another question. “Is his name Lance? And where is he?”

“Oh, yeah, that could be it. And he’s coming this way, so I hope you wanted to see him.”

Keith wasn’t sure what to think. He wasn’t quite ready to talk to Lance again, after Saturday and Star-Crossed. He didn’t know what to say, how to feel, but clearly he wasn’t getting any more chances to mull it over. Lance was here, and he was coming over to talk.

Well.  _ Talk _ wasn’t quite the right word.

He pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, ready to write. It didn’t escape him that he wouldn’t be able to read what Lance wrote, and he didn’t particularly want to use Nyma as a translator. But unless they figured out a better way to communicate, a third party was the only way it was going to work.

He could hear Lance’s footsteps as he drew closer, but instead of jumping on him or trying to scare him, he felt a gentle hand on his elbow that was gone as quick as it had appeared. It sent a warm tingle up his arm, even through the sleeve, that wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

_ Hi, Lance, _ he wrote, and held the pen out for Lance to take. He felt him grab it, heard him scrawl something, and could practically see the look on his face as it dawned that they didn’t have a friend to translate.

“Hey, Nyma? Could you do me a favor?” As much as it pained him to ask, Keith needed to make this one-sided conversation possible for both sides. Nyma, annoying as she was, was the easiest way at the moment. “Could you read what Lance writes to me?”

“Yeah, sure, Keith. No problem.” He wasn’t quite sure how she knew his name, but he was willing to roll with it.

“Thanks.”

“He says ‘Hey, Keith! I can’t believe we have bio together! Can I see your notes from yesterday?’”

Keith suppressed a shudder. For some reason, there was something  _ wrong _ about Nyma translating Lance’s words, speaking his thoughts for him. It made him uncomfortable in ways he didn’t understand; all he knew was he wanted to find a better way to communicate as fast as possible.

He pushed his unease away and took the pen.  _ Why? Didn’t you take any? _

“‘I find taking notes detracts from the full lecture experience.’”

_ You fell asleep, didn’t you? _ He tried to keep a straight face, raising his eyebrow in quiet disdain, but it was really hard to fight the small smile that wanted to crawl onto his face. Too hard, as the corner of his mouth curved up into a smirk.

“‘That’s one way to put it. As long as you don’t tell my mom.’” Again, the wrongness of Nyma’s translation hit him as words so clearly Lance’s passed through her lips.

_ Depends. _

“‘On what?’”

_ If you come over to our place again. I’m sure Hunk has a new recipe he wants to try out on a test monkey. _

“‘Reporting for duty, captain,’” Nyma translated with a giggle that made Keith’s skin itch like it was trying to crawl off.

_ Definitely _ annoying.

Instead he tried to picture Lance’s grin, which he knew had formed on his face at the mention of Hunk’s cooking.  _ So. Tonight, Hunk’s dinner at my apartment, in exchange for me not telling your mom on you? _

“‘I seem to be getting blackmailed a lot lately.’”

_ And? _

“And sure. Sounds fun. Because of Hunk, of course. I’m not sure you do fun.”

Keith rolled his eyes, if only to fight that damn corner of his mouth down.  _ Yeah, yeah. I’m not the one with the baby moped bike. _

“‘Don’t even  _ try _ to tell me you didn’t enjoy that ride, Mullet Man. I heard–er, saw–you yelling.’”

_ And  _ that’s _ appropriate driving. Taking your eyes off the road to look at your passenger? _

“‘Hey, can I help it if I need to check up on you every two seconds to make sure you haven’t gotten into a fight?’” Nyma’s laughter brought Keith back from wherever he had been, reminding him that this wasn’t in fact a private conversation, and someone was reading every word they said to each other like a court transcript.

_ Yeah, well,  _ Keith wrote. He struggled for what else to add when Ms. Ryner’s voice cut through the classroom, followed quickly by the bell.

“Okay, class, today we’ll be starting a new  _ project _ ,” she announced, to a chorus of groans from the rest of the class. “Yes, yes, I know. But this won’t be too bad, I assure you. Now–” She launched into a typical teacher-project spiel, and Keith scrawled one last message before turning to face Ms. Ryner.

_ Sit next to me? _

And he heard Lance settle into the empty desk next to him, squeezing his shoulder lightly as a reply.

He couldn’t fight the soft smile this time; he was glad that Lance was here, in this class that he had previously been alone in. All the Nymas in the world couldn’t detract from the fact that he had a friend here. He wasn’t quite so alone.

It helped, he thought as he listened to Ms. Ryner talk about rubrics and partners. It helped to have someone you could count on.

Because he knew he could count on Lance. He only prayed Lance would be able to count on him.

That he wouldn’t let him down, like he already had to so many.

* * *

 

“Hi, Keith,” came Shiro’s voice from the backroom as Keith walked in. “How’s my favorite art student?”

“Pretty sure teachers aren’t allowed to choose favorites,” he replied as he dumped his stuff on a table and pulled out his lunch; a whole turkey sandwich split into two halves, courtesy of Hunk. “But hey, Shiro.”

“Ah, but I’m not your official teacher. I can have favorites off grid.”

“Off grid? Are we cryptids now?”

“Keith.” Shiro’s voice was dead serious. “You’ve always been a cryptid.”

“Funny, Hunk says the same thing,” Keith replied, taking his half, tearing it into two quarters, and inhaling his quarter in a matter of seconds. “Wonder if you’re onto something?”

“You know the saying: Hunk’s always right.” Shiro said, and Keith could practically hear the smile in his voice as his footsteps grew closer. Keith wordlessly held out the other whole sandwich half, wrapped in deli paper, as Shiro sat across from him. “So, what have you been working on lately?”

“I’m almost done with a phoenix mural on my rooftop, and I did a few quick sketches… but other than that, not much, actually. Hunk dragged me to Lance’s family’s restaurant Saturday and–”

“Wait. Lance? As in, breadstick-loving Lance?”

Keith didn’t miss how Shiro tactfully avoided referring to him as ‘deaf kid Lance’. Shiro almost  _ never _ brought up Keith’s own disability; he had a gift for seeing people for themselves, and not just whatever trait was obvious on the surface. While it could be annoying when Keith was at his most pessimistic, on the whole he really appreciated Shiro’s sensitivity.

“Uh, yeah–I ran into him after school that day… turns out he has lessons with the chorus teacher like I do with you? And then Hunk called me, I mentioned Lance, and Hunk blackmailed me into inviting him over. And then he dragged me to Lance’s mom’s restaurant the next day. So, yeah… that Lance.”

“Oh, umm… speaking of Allu–er, the chorus teacher, she’s dropping by sometime this period.” Shiro said, sounding about ten times more awkward. “She wanted to discuss something about our curriculums.”

“Your curriculums? You teach completely different subjects.”

“Well, uh, we both teach the arts–both electives, you know, similar rules we have to follow.”

“Uh-huh, sure…” Keith said, skeptical. “I think Lance is coming, too. We’re working on a bio project together, and we figured we should get a headstart on it.”

Shiro gasped audibly. “Did I hear that right? _Keith Kogane_ getting a headstart on a project _?_ _Willingly?_ Do I need to get a photo? Because no one will believe it if I don’t.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “You’d think you were the drama teacher, Shiro. And  _ yes, _ I decided to start early. But only because Lance is an even worse procrastinator than I am, and if we let it go we’d be working on it at two a.m. the day of.”

“So, you won’t need your paints today?”

“Nope. School before whatever it is that I actually want to be doing.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that in a million years,” Shiro said, chuckling. “So. This Lance kid. He’s nice?”

Keith suddenly wished Shiro was the blind one, so whatever weird reaction his face was having wouldn’t be visible. He could feel redness creeping up his neck, and he wished he could fight it back down like he would a bullying jerk or other tangible problem. If there was one thing Keith had never learned to control, it was his emotions.

“Uh, yeah, he’s nice. Hunk likes him, at least. And you know the saying–”

“Hunk’s always right,” Shiro finished. “And you’re working with him in bio?”

“Yeah, turns out we had a class together.”

“And Lance–”

Suddenly, the door opened, and Keith breathed a relieved sigh. Whoever it was, Lance or Allura, had just spared from whatever other invasive questions Shiro was planning to ask. They had his eternal gratitude.

“Hello, Shiro!” Allura’s clear voice, with her slight British accent, rang through the room. “Oh, and Keith! Hello to you as well.”

“Hi, Allura,” Shiro replied, coughing on what Keith would guess was a mouthful of sandwich.

“Hey, Allura,” Keith said, fighting back a grin. “Lance is going to come too, by the way.”

“Oh, stellar! I did need to talk to him about something,” Allura said, and Keith could swear he heard a mischievous smirk in her voice. “Anyway, Shiro, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Shiro coughed again, clearing his throat. “Uh, well, I just wanted to ask you if–Keith, do you want to go into the backroom for a second?” Keith raised his eyebrows and slowly shook his head.

“Not for anything in the world, Shiro.”

He could swear he heard Shiro mutter something under his breath–something along the lines of “I’ll get you for this, Kogane”–before continuing to stutter out a reply to Allura. “If, you were, uh–oh look over there, Lance is at the door! Why don’t you go let him in, Keith?”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m already standing. I’ll get it.” Allura said and Keith could hear her footsteps walking away, and leaned across the table.

“Smooth, Takashi. Smooth,” he whispered, grinning and wishing he could see Shiro’s face.

“Your time is coming, Keith. In about three seconds,” Shiro whispered back, and Keith could feel his face coloring as he steadily avoided thinking about what Shiro was implying.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“If you say so.” Keith could practically see the wolfish grin on his face, and he’d never imagined something so annoying. Except, possibly, Nyma’s face earlier.

Keith heard the door open and two sets of footsteps walking back, and as he sat up and focused on finding his sketchbook and pencil in the depths of his backpack, he heard a chair being pulled up next to him. A warm hand took the pencil from him, and scrawled something.

“Lance says ‘Hey, Keith,’” Allura read. “‘And hey to you too, Shiro.’”

Keith took the pencil and wrote  _ Hi, Lance. Ready to get started on this bio project? _ He felt for his other sandwich quarter and held it out.  _ Oh, and this is for you. _

“He says, ‘Hunk?’”

_ Do you even have to ask? _ Keith asked, smiling. He could imagine the spark that lit up in Lance’s eyes when he was offered some of Hunk’s food, even if it was just a sandwich; Keith hadn’t been sure if Lance had brought lunch, so he had decided to split his half to keep the peace between them and hopefully get the project off to a smooth start. He felt Lance take the sandwich and heard him chewing for a couple seconds before he took the pencil.

“‘Yep, definitely Hunk’s. Thanks, dude. I needed this.’”

_ I’ll tell Hunk you said so. _

“‘I’m thanking  _ you _ , Keith… I don’t think Hunk knew we were going to be eating together.’” Allura translated, and Shiro started coughing loudly, and in Keith’s opinion, so not subtly. He shot him a glare, which he was sure was returned with a grin, and took the pencil again.

_ I don’t need much to eat–I mean, Shiro over there could probably eat a cow in comparison. I just figured you’d want it? It’s no big deal. Not like I made it or anything, at least. _

“Lance has that look on his face that says ‘I’m not buying this but I’m going to let it go because you’re even more stubborn than I am,’ Keith. And now he’s saying ‘Allura, I do not!’ He does too, Keith, don’t listen to him.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. And can’t.” Keith said with a grin, facing Lance and trying to speak the words as clearly as possible for him to get the gist of what he was mouthing. He felt a light swat on his shoulder that meant Lance had gotten his message, and he laughed.

“Anyway, Lance told me you two were working on a project together? Pardon me asking, but how are you going to manage to work together if you need a translator to communicate all of the time?”

_ Oh. _

That was a good question, one Keith and Lance should have both considered before partnering up. But who else was Keith going to be partnered with? Best case, he would have been paired up with someone he could just barely stand. Worst case, he’d be paired up with one of the many idiots who thought picking on the blind was fun. Lance was the best choice, the only choice… and he was literally the only person in the class that he couldn’t communicate easily with. They hadn’t had a problem today, since Nyma offered up her services willingly, no matter how much it grated on Keith’s nerves. But what about if they had to work after school or something, or whenever Nyma actually worked on her project instead of giggling at things Lance wrote? They needed to figure something out, preferably something simple, easy, non-distracting… and  _ soon. _

_ Damn it, why can’t my life work out for once? _

He scratched the back of his neck with one gloved hand as he tried to come up a way to spin this that didn’t make them sound like they had horrible foresight and actually knew what they were doing.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” Shiro asked.

Keith shook his head, and Shiro sighed in an infuriatingly knowing way.

“Oh, Keith, Lance just signed ‘Wait,’ and pulled out his phone. He looks excited…” Allura said. “Oh! That’s brilliant!”

“What? What’s brilliant?”

Just as he was about to ask for a bit more  _ detail _ , thank you, a new voice rang out, a familiar one at that. It was female, stilted and computerized. “I’m brilliant, obviously, Keith.”

“Oh. Oh my God. Google translate?” Keith asked, writing as he spoke so Lance wouldn’t have to read his lips. “I can’t decide if that’s genius or the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Genius, duh,” the stilted voice translated. “Is Lance McClain ever anything but?”

Keith wasn’t sure, but he was pretty sure he heard Allura snort at that.

_ I’m pretty sure Allura could list a few times, _ Keith wrote, and Allura’s laughter pealed like bells through the room. He could practically feel the redness that was almost certainly flooding Shiro’s face. He shot a grin at him, and Shiro cleared his throat.

“Now that you and Lance can actually _ communicate, _ which was more than you do earlier, good job thinking ahead Keith, maybe you two could go in the backroom to work while Allura and I try to actually have a conversation? A  _ private _ conversation, not for the likes of students like you?”

Keith grinned evilly in Shiro’s direction as he deftly pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his apps. He had long ago memorized the layout of his phone, and he had never changed it since he went blind. He could also type fairly well, but it was easier on the computer than the phone, where he couldn’t feel the keys. He kept grinning as he found what he wanted, tapped a button, and set his phone into the slot in the desk.

“Of course, Shiro. I’d never intrude on a  _ private conversation, _ ” Keith said. “Come on, Lance.” He found Lance’s arm, grabbed it, and gently pulled him to the backroom. “See ya, Shiro. Nice to see you again, Allura.”

“Same to you, Keith.”

Seconds later, they were seated at one of the few tables in the backroom, the door closed. Once fully out of sight, Keith burst out laughing.

Shiro was just so  _ seethrough _ sometimes–he practically tripped over his own tongue just talking  _ about _ Allura, forget about talking  _ to _ her. Keith couldn’t believe Shiro’s heightened level of denial. It was unreal.

Keith had absolutely no idea how anyone could ever be so oblivious.

He certainly wasn’t. He had no crush and he knew it. Just… if he could stop that weird feeling in his stomach whenever Lance sang…

He realized he had lapsed into silence, and that Lance was probably staring at him.  _ Sorry, _ he scrawled.  _ It’s just… Shiro’s so head-over-heels it’s funny. Plus, I didn’t have any blackmail material before, and he has plenty, so… _

“You bugged them?” came the emotionless computer voice, but Keith knew Lance well enough by now that he could guess the surprised-but-excited inflection that probably came with it.

_ Let’s just say Shiro’s not going to be happy when he finds out. _

“Oh quiznak, that’s great! Can I have a copy? For Allura? The next time she tries to blackmail me…”

_ Quiz-nack? _

“Oh, yeah, it’s a family saying… don’t know where it came from, but we’ve always used it. Pidge too. There’s no ‘c’ in it, by the way.”

_ Hmm. Cool. _

“Hey, what’s your number? So you can send me the recording?”

_ Uh, sure, here, _ Keith wrote, scrawling his number on the paper.

“I’m sending you a text now, so you can add me to your contacts later…” the robotic monotone translated, and Keith was so busy trying to convince himself that Lance asking for his number was nothing, just something that happened between friends all the time, that it took a couple seconds for it to sink in.

_ Oh crap Lance don’t– _ he heard the text sending tone, and he dropped the pencil to put his head in his hands.

“What? What’s–oh. You’re not on silent, are you?” Again, Keith was struck by the emotionless voice and how little it fit Lance, so full of emotions. But he was too worried about his impending murder to think too hard on it. He nodded, and Lance groaned. That, at least, was fully Lance.

“What’s the likelihood that Shiro didn’t hear it?”

Keith scrabbled for the pencil, and wrote  _ Zero. He’s like a freaking bat. We’re done for. _

“Why? Will he be mad?”

_ No… it’s just, instead of getting mad, Shiro gets… disappointed. It’s quite possibly the worst damn thing in the world. _

He felt a hand suddenly grip his arm, and he looked up. “I grew up with a bunch of siblings… I know how to get out of this one.” Keith raised his eyebrows, but at this point anything was better than sitting there and waiting for the inevitable. He let himself be pulled to standing, and toward the door.

“Follow my lead.”

Lance opened the door, and based on his lighter-sounding footsteps, was tip-toeing along the wall. Keith rolled his eyes, but followed. He hadn’t had much experience with sneaking around his parents when he was younger, but now Lance’s know-how seemed to be paying off. Based on Shiro and Allura’s voices, which were talking in hushed, rather spirited, possibly angered tones, they hadn’t been noticed yet.

“–cording us! Blackmail?” Shiro asked.

“Most likely… Lance would love something against me, largely to stop  _ me _ from using what I have against him.” Allura replied.

“Ditto for Keith… what should we do?”

“I don’t–wait,” Allura’s voice dropped to an even lower whisper, and Keith’s sharp ears strained to hear. “Shiro. They’re over there–” Her voice got even quieter, dropping out of Keith’s range of hearing, and he slowly slipped his hand into Lance’s.

_ Saw us,  _ he traced in Lance’s palm.  _ Run? _

Lance began tracing into his palm.  _ In 3… 2… 1…  _

Lance’s hand tore out of his grip as he bolted forward, Keith a half a second after. He heard a surprised yell from either Shiro or Allura, and he heard chairs being pushed back as he poured on the speed. He beat Lance to the door, threw it open, and bolted through. He heard Lance slam it behind him as he darted outside, and he heard their adrenaline-fueled heavy breathing as they took a second to recover from their sprint.

_ Where to? _ Keith mouthed, but Lance didn’t reply. He tapped on his shoulder, a bit urgently, because he was sure Shiro and Allura were probably at the door by now.  _ Where– _

“What’re you two doing out here?” a loud voice boomed down the hallway, one Keith knew immediately. Big, gruff, mean-spirited, and probably not fit to be teaching kids, Keith had had more than a few run-ins with the deputy assigned to their campus.

Iverson.

Given how Lance’s shoulder had gone stiff under Keith’s hand and that he was standing stock-still, Lance had a history with the deputy as well.

“Kogane? Is that you again? I told you the last time… you nearly flunked out before, and I don’t want to haul your sorry butt to the vice principal again.” Keith scowled; Iverson had become the primary supporter of the ‘Get Kogane Kicked Out’ campaign ever since the spray-paint incident, and he clearly hadn’t given up the position.

“And McClain, too… how’re your exams going?” Keith had no idea what he meant, but Lance clearly did. He hadn’t thought Lance could get any tenser, but now he seemed wound tighter than a spring. Apparently Lance replied, through mouthing or ASL, because Iverson continued. “That’s what I thought.”

“Now, whose idea was it to be skipping class?”

“It’s our lun–”

“Mine.” Lance’s phone's translation interrupted Keith, and he stared. He started to protest, tracing in Lance’s palm, but Lance just swatted him away. The message was clear, but why? It was their lunch; there was no reason they couldn’t have walked out of the classroom. If they could just get it past Iverson’s thick skull–

“McClain, eh? I don’t believe it. You might be the reason for academic screw-ups, but Kogane’s the one with the discipline problem. You’re both going to come with me–”

Keith heard the door behind them open.  _ Finally. _

“What’s going on here?” Allura’s clear voice asked. “Deputy?”

“These two little miscreants were skipping class–”

“Actually,” came Shiro’s voice. “It’s their lunch period. They were with us, working on a school project.”

“But–”

“Unless you have a problem with students doing their work?” Allura asked, Keith guessed with an eyebrow arched and a cool expression on her face.

“No, of course not ma’am, it’s just–”

“Okay then. They’ll be coming back in with us.” Keith heard the door open, and felt a light hand on his arm, guiding him away from Iverson and the detention that went with him and into safety. Once they were inside, the door safely closed, Keith braced himself for whatever reprimand they inevitably were going to receive and most likely deserve.

“You’re quite welcome, Lance,” Allura said in reply to his ASL. “You really shouldn’t have run out, but that’s beside the point.”

“Pretty sure that’s exactly the point.” Keith said, wincing. “Sorry, Shiro. And you too, Allura.”

“Yeah, well, it’s over now. I deleted the recording from your phone. Why you want to record a conversation about curriculum maps, I’m not sure, but I can always give you a lecture on them anytime you want.”

“No, Shiro, that’s okay–”

“Why sure, Keith, I’d love to! Let’s start right now… be warned, it’s a pretty hefty topic, and it might take several lunch periods to get through all the material.”

“No, Shiro–”

“Okay, I’ll start, and I’m sure Allura would love to translate for Lance. There’s a couple diagrams involved, I’ll have to explain them in detail, of course. And I might give you a test at the end to make sure you  _ really _ know your high school curriculum. Great choice, Keith, I’m so glad you’re interested in your old pal Shiro’s business like this. Makes me feel appreciated that you want to learn about my  _ curriculum maps. _ ” Keith could hear the wink in Shiro’s voice, and he groaned. There was no getting out of this one. He sat down and braced his head in his hands, and he heard Lance sit down as well, grumbling wordlessly.

“Lesson one: know your students…”

Keith sighed. This was going to be a long lunch period.

And, he realized, they still hadn’t started on their biology project.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you all for the comments and kudos–they really make my day! I'm extremely grateful for the wonderful reception and all of the support. :)  
> Secondly, after this chapter and possibly the next, the plot is going to pick up fast. My favorite part of the story is coming up, and I'm super excited to share what has been hiding in my plot doc all this time. Regardless of plot development, though, I _can_ tell you that the next chapter is going to be a rollercoaster, so fasten your seat belts.  
>  Thirdly, and most importantly, in the extremely likely circumstance I don't manage to update before July 28, I'd like to wish Lance a happy early birthday, because he deserves it.


	9. Hear Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which  
> 1\. Pidge makes physics puns  
> 2\. Lance is a good older brother  
> 3\. Pineapple Pizza Discourse™ takes place  
> 4\. Hunk makes it a contest  
> 5\. Lance has a moment  
> 6\. Keith cradles him in his arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow man this is about ten more pages than I intended to write... and it took about two weeks longer than I intended to write it in. Let's just say the infamous "oh I'll do it tomorrow" bug struck again. (That and the fact I kept giving myself deadlines and never actually writing a word by the time they came up. Apparently unless I'm getting graded and it's schoolwork deadlines aren't working for me. Oh well.)  
> So, long story short: extra long chapter for you today after almost a month of waiting! I suppose the added length makes up for it, at least in part.  
> (Lots of fluff _and_ angst, plus humor–it was a very fun chapter to write.)  
>  (Oh yeah... I slid quite a few puns in there, just fyi :))

Lance now knew more about curriculum maps than he ever wanted to know.

Who knew being a teacher took so much _forethought?_ (Well, he did, actually. His little sister Joana was considering a career in teaching, and she had talked about it _a lot…_ which, he had to admit, was kind of impressive. He wasn’t even that focused on what _he_ was going to end up doing with his life, and he was technically an adult.) But teaching seemed boring as hell (at least after that mind-numbing lecture), so at least he had could cross that off his prospective careers list.

Anything was better than getting stuck in detention with Iverson, though. _Anything._

Plus, out of the whole experience, he did score a dinner at Keith’s, for some more of the heavenly ambrosia mere mortals called food. He had already told his mom where he was going, and she seemed excited for him. She was probably excited that he now had more than two friends; he had doubled his previous count.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out, grinning upon seeing who the text was from.

 

**Beethoven of Breadsticks**

>So, Keith tells me you’re coming over?

 

>yeah, if it’s fine with you

 

>Awesome, man, glad to have you

>Any food preferences?

 

>as long as you’re the one cooking

>i wouldn’t trust keith with my food as far as i can throw him

 

>He’s pretty light actually

>You could probably throw him pretty far

>…but I see your point

 

>umm, i was wondering… could pidge come over too?

>i’m sure she’d want to

>and she needs to be inducted into the world of hunk’s cooking

 

>Sure dude, that’s fine with me

>Just asked Keith, he said sure too

>Well, actually he said ‘we need _someone_ who can restrain Lance’

 

>ha ha

>tell him he’s hilarious

 

>He said he knows

> :)

 

>…   

>no comment

>(but no, he’s not)

 

Lance decided that after arranging for Pidge to meet with them, it’d be best to tell _her_ of her new plans for the evening.

 

**Nerd Bird**

>so guess who’s coming to dinner with me and keith and hunk tonight

 

>better be matt because i’m studying for a huge test tomorrow

>it’s physics

>and i may have accidentally forgotten about the test until today

>so make like an atom and nucle-bye

 

>too late

>i already invited you

 

>…

>why

>why would you do that

 

>bc i have your best interests at heart

>and studying for a physics test is not one of them

 

>i babysit for your crazy siblings and this is how you repay me?

>by having me flunk?

 

>so, you’re coming then?

 

>…

>yes

>for hunk and keith

 

> <3

 

>i hate you

 

Lance grinned. He’d take his moped by her house on the way to Keith’s… probably without giving her any warning and leading to a bit of ASL cursing, but that was normal in the Holt household after she had become friends with Lance. No one would be concerned.

 

**Beethoven of Breadsticks**

>pidge is locked in

>when should we come over?

 

>She does know we have a test in Mr. Slav’s tomorrow, right?

>And 7:00ish? Does that work with you?

 

>[screenshot sent]

>yes, she does

>seven’s good w/ me

 

>”Nucle-bye” I’m snorting

>But I mean I’m not studying for it either so

>Does pizza sound good? I have some fresh dough made and I figure it’s a pretty universally liked food

>I have a bunch of toppings so you guys can choose when you get here

 

>pizza sounds great

>and that way we can discuss each other's topping/life choices and discover just how wrong they are

>*cough cough* keith *cough*

 

>He says that you probably don’t even like pineapple on pizza, so what do you know?

 

>i’m going to pretend i didn’t read that so i don’t vomit

>that’s the grossest thing ever and i will discuss the subject extensively when i get there

 

>Keith just shrugged and grinned

>He doesn’t look too worried

 

>he should be

 

He felt a knocking under his feet, which meant his mom was calling for him from the restaurant. When no one was around, she had taken to literally hitting the ceiling with a broom to alert Lance, since the vibrations did what her voice couldn’t. And if he couldn’t feel them and didn’t come, she’d send one of her children (read: minions) to come get him.

He looked at the time, and sighed. It was 4:30 now… just a few more hours before he was free and ready to hold the pineapple pizza discourse.

 

>oh, my mom’s calling, gtg

>see you at 7

>and keith too I guess

 

>See you

>Keith says ‘tell Pidge I’m looking forward to seeing her’

>’and Lance too I guess’

 

> <3

 

Lance shoved his phone in his pocket, grinning, as he slowly made his way down the stairs. Chances are, whatever his mom was going to ask him to do, it would involve either work or the depressing reminder that they barely _had_ work anymore.

Well. _He_ had work, if only barely. The gigs he sang at other restaurants were just tiny boosts to their income, trying desperately to keep them afloat when they were sinking fast. They did _something_ , of course, and he was always glad to deposit a check as a surprise for when his mom checked their bank account… but it wasn’t enough. The only thing that would be enough is if Lance became wildly successful, or the restaurant did. Both seemed an incredible long shot.

He made it down the stairs without being barrelled into, which he called an unqualified success. The restaurant was empty, which was no surprise, with only his mother at the counter. She beckoned him over, and started signing.

_So, as you well know, the twins’ birthday is coming up. I’ve been saving for weeks, so we can actually throw them a halfway decent party, and I know Carlos has been looking into decorations that fit the budget… but I need your help with presents._

_It doesn’t have to be a lot. We can’t afford a lot. We know it, Joana and Rica know it, and I can’t stand it, but it’s true. If we could find one good present for each of them, from all of us, and throw them a nice party with a good cake, I think that would make their day._

Lance nodded, even as his heart ached. Every year, birthdays were a bit of a problem. Lance had taken to trying to stop his mom from celebrating his, and in recent years she had, but he noticed that on his birthday there was always a cake sitting in his room, and a letter.

He always gave the cake to his siblings, even though the older ones tried to refuse. Sometimes he would take a piece as a compromise… but he would always slip it to Nico or Izzy, who weren’t old enough (or crazy enough) to turn away free dessert.

But the letters, he kept. They started out as normal notes, wishing him a happy birthday and tell him that he was blessed and loved and everything along those lines. But they also had a second piece of paper stapled to them–he had gotten a page out his mom’s old diary, a family recipe he had never heard of, and a love note from his father to his mother.

The night he got the love note, he had cried. He had tried not to–he tried with everything he had, but he couldn’t resist the tears that swept down his cheeks. He didn’t know why his mom had given him _that,_ of all things, but he was sure there was a reason–there was always a reason, for everything. Every song, every word, every action. There was always a reason.

No matter how much he didn’t like it.

 _Lance?_ His mom signed, jolting him out of his reverie. _Are you alright?_

 _Yeah, mama, I’m good,_ he replied, grinning as best he could. _Ready for some good old present shopping… I actually think I have an idea, for once._

 _Now that is a first,_ signed his mom, smiling back. _Lance with a plan? Unheard of._

_Yeah, yeah… you’ll regret that when I pull of the best birthday present idea of the year._

_I’ll believe it when I see it. When are you leaving tonight?_

_6:30. I’ve got to pick up Pidge on my way, and they’re expecting us at 7:00. Don’t know when I’ll be back, though._

_Text me when you head home, or if plans change, alright? I’m not going to put a time cap on your night, though, even though today_ is _a school night…_

Lance smiled. _Yeah, mom, I get it. You want me asleep early enough that I can still function tomorrow. Tall order, but I think I can manage it. Thanks, mama._ He leaned down and kissed her cheek before going back up to his room to formulate his plan for the twins’ birthday.

But when he got to his room, it wasn’t empty.

Carlos was sitting on his cot, swinging his feet even though they were long enough to touch the floor. He looked up as Lance walked in, and he looked small, sheepish. _Lance,_ he signed. _I–I just wanted to apologize for before–_

Lance strode to him in two steps and wrapped his arms around him before he could sign anymore. Carlos had been avoiding him ever since his breakdown the week before, and Lance had decided to give him space instead of prying. But now, he had finally come, and he was _apologizing._ It broke Lance’s heart.

They sat there for a moment, brothers still coping with the aftermath of their father’s desertion. Then Carlos gently untangled himself, and started signing. _But, earlier, I just… couldn’t take it anymore. First those idiots came to me again, and then the empty–_

Lance reached out and stopped Carlos’s hands. _What idiots?_

His brother winced. _Oh. Just some jerks who bother me occasionally. It’s no big deal._

 _How do they bother you?_ Lance thought back to that day. Carlos hadn’t been bruised or scratched, had he? If those–well, what Lance was thinking wasn’t appropriate for polite company–idiots had hurt his brother, they were about to face the consequences, probably in the shape of Lance’s fist.

 _They don’t hurt me, if that’s what you’re thinking,_ Carlos said, but Lance didn’t relax. There were more types of wounds than just physical ones. _They just… make fun of me? Like, I try to be calm and professional and everything, but they laugh at me for it? And they know we don’t have much money, they’ve seen the hand-me-downs, and, uh…_ Carlos’s gaze suddenly dropped, and he didn’t continue signing.

 _What?_ Lance signed, a sick weight in his stomach. _It’s okay, you can tell me. You can tell me anything, you know that._

 _And… they make fun of you. To me. They make fun of my so-called ‘deaf faggot brother’ and I try not to react Lance, I try to ignore them like you always say to, but I can take them insulting the restaurant, I can take them insulting me, I can take them insulting my goals and my hopes for the future, that stuff they can’t bother me with._ Carlos was looking up now, into Lance’s eyes, his gaze desperate, pained. Lance knew what was coming next and he couldn’t breathe, though from sadness or fury he wasn’t sure.

 _But… I couldn’t stand it when they insulted you. For things you can’t control. And I don’t give a damn that you’re deaf, that you’re bi, you’re still_ Lance. _You’re still my brother. That stuff’s just part of who you are and who you’ve become. I couldn’t take them mocking you for it. For mocking me that I have you for a brother, when that’s the thing I’m most proud of._

Carlos’s eyes were shining now, the type of shining that bespeaks unshed tears. _There was a teacher right there, but I didn’t see them. If I had, I don’t think I would have cared. I punched one of them, right in the nose. It didn’t seem to faze them, but the teacher was on me in a minute. I was taken to Haggar. I got detention… and two weeks suspension. I tried explaining what happened, but the woman’s a witch and didn’t care. And I have a test coming up, an important test! It helps determine where I’m placed in math next year! If I can’t take it, there’s no way… I can’t… I need that scholarship if I want to get into college, you know that. If this test messes everything up, I’ll never forgive myself!_

Carlos was rambling now and Lance abruptly cut him off, taking his hands gently to stop him. He looked at Carlos, on the cusp of crying, and thanked his lucky stars he had always made such a point of schooling his emotions away where no one else could see them. Carlos didn’t need him to start crying right now; he needed his support, his reassurance.

 _Carlos. It will be okay. I’m not trying to give you empty words of encouragement, or anything. It_ will _be okay, because I’m going to fix this. You shouldn’t have to defend me, and you shouldn’t be mocked because of who you are and who your family is. Because you’re right, Carlos. I’m more proud of you and the others than anything else. I’m so proud to be your older brother._ He gently cupped Carlos’s strong chin in a hand, raising his bowed head to meet his eyes, before continuing to sign. _I’m going to go to Haggar, I’m going to go to Zarkon, I’ll go to Principal Coran himself if that’s what it takes. But I’m going to fix this; you’re going to take that test and you’re going to ace it and get into the classes you want and get your scholarship and get into the college you want. I promise you. Alright?_ Lance smiled, warm and strong. One, two seconds passed, and then a shaky, watery smile slid over Carlos’s face as he nodded.

_Alright. Thank you, Lance._

_It’s what I’m here for. And, you know, those guys are just jealous,_ Lance signed, smile morphing into a more mischievous, cockier grin.

Carlos noticed the change and raised an eyebrow; he knew his brother better than most anyone on Earth. _Of?_

_My amazing good looks, attractive personality, and overall Lance-ness, of course._

_And me?_

_Oh, yeah, they’re definitely jealous of your close proximity to me._

Carlos laughed out loud, throwing his head back as he chuckled at his older brother’s cockiness; not that Lance could hear it, but he still remembered what it sounded like from thirteen years of coaxing laughter from his younger sibling. It was a sound he missed, but it was a little difficult to feel grief when his brother was grinning so widely.

 _Of course,_ Carlos signed, standing up. His eyes, mirthful, softened slightly around the edges as he began to leave. _Thank you again._

 _Yeah. You’re welcome,_ Lance replied, letting his smirk fade into a small, soft smile. Carlos returned it in the way that only he could, letting his serious mask drop to reveal the quiet warmth underneath, before exiting the room and leaving Lance to his thoughts.

Speaking of thoughts.

_How the quiznak am I going to fix this?_

He _was_ going to, he had to, he had promised Carlos he would. If he couldn’t, he was just going to try that much harder. It wasn’t going to be easy, though. He hadn’t even managed to get to the principal when he just wanted a class transfer, and now he was trying to plead a case that had already been denied.

 _But,_ Lance thought, remembering Carlos’s soft smile, _like hell I’m going to give up._

* * *

 

**Nerd Bird**

>look outside

 

>lance if you’re out there you’re about to get smacked

 

>c’mon, pidge, you should’ve known I’d show up unexpected

 

>c’mon, lance, you should’ve known I’d be ticked when you did

 

>…

>point taken

>man where are u? it’s been like five minutes

>oh nvm

 

Pidge walked out of her house, waving to someone inside, before jogging over to Lance’s bike. Lance chuckled, nodding at the helmet in her hands. _Your mom’s home?_

She scowled, shoving the helmet on her head before replying. _You know how she is. She barely lets me ride with you in the first place. No matter how much I tell her it’s practically a scooter and I don’t really_ need _to be suffocated with this strangler of a helmet, she doesn’t care._

 _It is a beaut,_ Lance signed, chuckling. Pidge’s mom had picked it out herself, the biggest, safest helmet with the most padding that would still fit Pidge’s small head. Pidge had tried to argue against it, and if Matt or even her dad were the only ones home they didn’t make her wear it, but her mom was adamant. Technically Lance had a helmet too, but he knew these streets so well he didn’t feel the need to wear it driving between his home and Pidge’s.

And yes, Lance _knew_ that still wasn’t safe, but the wind rushing past his ears was one of the few experiences his ears still got to have. He might not be able to hear it, but he could feel it, and it always was a relief to know that his ears weren’t just two dead appendages hanging off the sides of his head.

Plus, he never went far. His house was close to the school, close to Pidge’s, and close to Keith’s. He did _have_ a helmet, strapped in the back of the bike, if he ever felt he needed the added safety. He just… never felt the necessity.

 _Yeah, yeah,_ Pidge grumbled. _Just drive before I regret this and go back to studying._

_You and I both know you don’t want to be studying right now._

_Yeah, and that’s the only thing working in your favor._ Lance smirked, which he knew would annoy Pidge even further, before turning and starting the short drive to Keith and Hunk’s apartment.

A few minutes later, they had pulled up to the rather run-down apartment complex. As soon as they parked, Pidge yanked her helmet off and threw it on the seat. She never hid it or even strapped it on in the hopes that someone would steal it; so far, the thieves had disappointed.

 _This is the place?_ Pidge asked, obviously trying to fight down the eyebrow her curiosity was raising.

_Trust me, this might look shabby, but their place is amazing._

_I make it a point to not trust you, but for their sakes I’ll try._

_I’m wounded, Pidge,_ he replied, a hand dramatically clutching his heart.

_Okay, Shakespeare, can you cut the dramatics and just show me where the food is? I’m starving._

_For sooth, good lady, come hither, and follow thine knight to the land of sensory euphoria,_ Lance signed, bowing goofily and grinning. Pidge tried hard to look annoyed, but she couldn’t resist a smile, chuckling softly.

 _Verily, Sir Knight,_ Pidge signed, and they walked into the apartment complex.

The entire way through the lobby and up the stairs, Pidge was clearly resisting various levels of skepticism. It certainly wasn’t the nicest looking place, nor the nicest smelling place, but Lance knew the Atlantis that this desolate ocean of a building contained. He was looking forward to seeing Pidge’s shocked expression when she saw that he was right all along. For sooth, he was.

He smelled it before he saw it, and he could see the exact moment Pidge smelled it as well. Her eyebrows shot up as she inhaled deeply. _Hey, that doesn’t smell like mothballs or alcohol._

 _Milady, thine nostrils dost not deceive thee,_ he signed, gesturing dramatically to the door where the aroma was coming from. _We have arrived._

Pidge lightly swatted him, but she was much more interested in the prospect of food than his antics, and raised a hand to knock on the door. Seconds after she knocked, the door swung open.

Two steps into the room later, she stopped dead in her tracks and gasped. Lance grinned; he understood her reaction. The beautiful murals combined with the delicious scent was an intoxicating combination, especially since Pidge wasn’t expecting it.

Lance entered the apartment as well, closing the door behind him. Hunk, predictably, was in the kitchenette. Pidge was still standing, awestruck, and Keith was standing by the door, looking in her general direction. He was smiling at her, pleased and proud, because even though he obviously hadn’t been able to see her reaction, he had most likely heard it.

Pride was a good look on him. You know, objectively.

He walked up to him, and Keith’s eyes darted in his direction as Lance gently tapped his shoulder in greeting. _Hey, Lance,_ Keith mouthed, before turning back to Pidge and replying to something she had said. From the way he grinned wider, it was probably a compliment wrapped in a bit of patented Pidge dry humor.

Lance walked over to the kitchenette, where Hunk was hard at work, mixing a bowl of dark brown batter. When he took a seat on one of the barstools, Hunk glanced up and grinned, setting down his spoon to grab a piece of chalk. _Long time no see! How’re you doing, buddy?_ he wrote, before tossing the chalk across the counter to Lance.

Lance got off the stool and wrote back, _Better now that I’m here, my dude. Whatcha cookin’?_

Hunk grinned, shaking his head. _It’s a surprise, for when the Pineapple Pizza Discourse leads to broken friendships and possibly broken noses._

_Ugh. I had managed to successfully block out Keith’s horrible life choices until now. I actually want to throw up. That’s nauseating._

Hunk just shrugged. _I’ve known him for four years now. I’ve gotten used to it._

_You truly have an iron will._

_Nah. Just an iron stomach._ Hunk smirked. _But speaking of my stomach, I have the pizza dough all ready. I just need to know what you’re all going to want on it._

_Don’t let Keith have a vote._

_Sorry, he’s my roommate. He’ll probably lock me out of the bathroom or use up all the hot water every morning if I don’t give him a vote._

_Why am I surrounded by blackmailers?_

_It’s rough, dude,_ Hunk wrote, before waving the other two over. Lance settled back down on his barstool just as Keith and Pidge sat down next to him; Hunk stood behind the counter with three uncooked pizzas, just dough and sauce and cheese so far. About to be ruined, unless Lance had any say about it.

Pidge was on the stool directly beside him, and started translating as Hunk started talking. _So. I’ve noticed a bit of a dissent in the ranks. But luckily, I have enough pizza for us all to have whatever toppings we want, so–_

Lance held up a hand, cutting him off. _Uh, I won’t be able to eat my perfectly reasonably topping-ed pizza with the smell of_ his–he gestured dramatically at Keith, which was completely lost to his blindness– _devil food in my nose._ After Pidge translated, with slightly more air quotes than Lance thought was necessary, Keith glared.

He started talking, and Pidge huffed a long-suffering sigh as she continued to be the middleman. _Are you implying there’s something wrong about pineapple on pizza? It’s delicious!_

Lance sputtered wordlessly before he gained enough mental traction to reply. _Delicious? It’s disgusting! Pizza is not meant to be_ sweet!

 _Gotta go with Lance, on this one,_ added Hunk. _I consider myself a gourmet and I’ve never understood your thing for pineapple pizza, Keith._

 _Well, I’m with Keith, personally. I can’t count the amount of weird things Matt has made me try. Pineapple pizza was definitely one of the least questionable,_ Pidge said, signing as she spoke, and Lance stared at her in disbelief. She caught his eye and shrugged, but it was clear she was resisting a smirk. Especially when Keith raised his hand for a high-five and she obliged, shooting a grin over her shoulder.

Betrayed. By his own best friend.

Over _pineapple pizza._

It was a cruel, cold world.

He looked at Hunk, who was watching the whole thing with a grin, and raised a hand, clasped into a loose fist. Hunk fist bumped him, and they both waggled their fingers as they pulled away. Lance grinned. At least _Hunk_ was a loyal friend, who knew how to properly fist bump and the horror that was pineapple pizza.

 _Well, Lance, what’s_ your _favorite type of pizza?_ Keith asked as Pidge interpreted. _What topping have you deemed fit for your tastebuds?_

 _Anything but pineapple… and anchovies, anchovies are gross._ At that, at least everyone nodded. _Right now, maybe ham._

Keith wrinkled his nose. _Ham? That doesn’t belong on pizza. If you have to have a meat on it, why not pepperoni? Or sausage?_

 _Keith, Keith, Keith,_ Lance signed, sighing; the uneducated masses these days. _Pepperoni is way too typical. It’s boring. The kind of people that like pepperoni are the kind of people that want to grow up, get married, have kids, keep a steady job, and die of old age. The boring people. And sausage is just too broad a category. What_ is _sausage? No one knows for sure. It’s like the mystery meat from the cafeteria. But ham–-ham is both different and definitive. It knows what it is. It is_ ham _, god dammit, and it is not taking no for an answer._

 _Pssh, Keith,_ Pidge scoffed, signing as she spoke, _Lance just likes ham because he’s such a big one._

Lance gaped, mouth comically wide. First betrayal, now insults? Pidge had never stooped so low.

Well. She didn’t have that far to stoop, if you caught his meaning.

But while Lance was reeling from the blow, Keith was full-out laughing and even Hunk was chuckling a little bit. Keith’s head was thrown back as his mouth opened, lips forming something between an amused smirk and a genuine smile. It… it was something to see.

Objectively, of course.

Especially since he was laughing _at Lance._

 _Hmph,_ Lance grouched to himself, fighting down that weird feeling in his gut that he knew for sure didn’t belong. _Stupid Mullet with his laugh and his hair. And his bad taste in pizza._

 _Okay, okay,_ Hunk said, his arms raising in the “settle down” gesture. _I have an idea. So, we have Pidge and Keith, AKA Team Pine-appalling, and me and Lance, AKA Team Anything But That._

 _How about Team Fineapple vs. Team Hamming It Up?_ Pidge suggested.

 _Team Heathens vs. Team People With Tastebuds?_ Lance signed, and Pidge swatted him. He had noticed that Pidge had an unhealthy tendency to hit him–and only him. Hunk had made a pineapple joke too, but you didn’t see him getting hit!

Pidge really was a backstabbing little gremlin.

 _Team Fruit vs. Team Meat?_ Pidge snorted through her translation of Keith’s suggestion, and Lance had to laugh as well.

 _Creative, Keith,_ he signed. As Pidge interpreted, Keith scowled, a light red flush evident in his cheeks.

 _Yeah, well, at least my suggestion wasn’t an insult,_ he muttered in reply, dipping his head down as Pidge signed. Lance could swear he saw red-flushed ears poking through his deep ebony locks.

 _Your hair style sure is one though,_ Lance signed. _I mean, just because your ancestors didn’t know what style was doesn’t mean you have to mock them for it._

Keith rolled his eyes after Pidge’s translation, trying to shrug it off, but it was clear he was annoyed. Lance grinned. Served him right, mocking his pizza toppings and laughing at him and all. He was just about to add a little bit more fuel to the fire when Hunk raised his hands in that placating gesture again.

_So, guys, as you know, I was making a surprise dessert for you all. And in light of the recent division, I was thinking we ought to decide this issue once and for all. I’m going to make three hawaiian pizzas, and we’re going to have a contest. Team that eats the most slices by the end wins the dessert._

Lance couldn’t decide whether this was a fabulous idea or the worst thing he had ever heard of. On one hand, he had Hunk, eating machine, on his team, and the promise of some wonderful surprise dessert as a reward. But on the other, much more unpleasant hand, he actually had to consume pizza with pineapple on it. Sure, there was ham, but the pineapple was a horrible looming shadow in his future. What was he going to do? How was he going to cope? He could barely even bring himself to _look_ at the pineapple Hunk was now using to contaminate three perfectly good pizzas, much less _taste_ it. Maybe Hunk would eat all of the pizza for him. Or he could pick off the offending fruits and flick them at Keith and Pidge, revenge for making him suffer like this.

Somehow he didn’t think that would go over so well.

He glanced over at Pidge and Keith, who were grinning at each other, determined looks set on their faces. Pidge caught his eye and smirked, winking. _You’re going down, McLame,_ she signed, with the evil gremlin grin only she could wear.

 _Yeah, well, we’re going to Mc-Clean the floor with you,_ he signed back, with an equally devilish smirk of his own, even though he was horribly offended that she had gone so low as to use last-name jokes.

She whispered something to Keith, who also retorted and joined the bad-name-puns-club. _You guys are so Ko-gone._

Lance was just scrambling for another pun when Hunk looked up from his cooking, his face completely blank as he said something before dropping his gaze back to the pizzas. He looked over to Pidge, who was caught somewhere in between choking in shock and laughing, and Keith, who was definitely laughing. She saw Lance looking over, though, and quickly and shakily signed a translation. _Would you three just get a Holt of yourselves?_

Lance’s jaw dropped as his head whipped back to the straight-faced cook, who didn’t even appear to notice the reactions his pun was creating. And then Lance threw back his head and laughed, full-out guffaws that came from his chest and that warm place in his stomach. His eyes were closed, and he couldn’t hear a single chuckle, but that didn’t stop him from completely dissolving into slightly irrational laughter.

Slowly, slowly, the chuckles subsided, and he sat back up. Lance wiped a single mirthful tear from his eye, and turned toward the cook, who was now putting the pizzas in the oven. _Hunk, buddy, I am so proud right now,_ he signed, counting on Pidge to translate as she always did. Hunk smiled back, having received the message, and winked.

Lance almost started laughing again, but managed to restrain himself. Instead, he turned to Pidge and Keith.

Pidge was still recovering from her near-choking earlier, head in her hands, elbows propped on the counter. Keith–-Lance did a doubletake. Keith’s eyes were closed, and his expression would have been almost serene if not for his slightly furrowed brow. He was staring directly in Lance’s direction, almost dead-on, but Lance wouldn’t have thought anything of it if not for the slight redness climbing up his neck and toward his cheeks.

Was Keith… blushing? Why?

Before he could analyze the situation further, Hunk turned away from the oven and started talking. Pidge had raised her head from her hands and started signing as he talked, because despite being a disloyal gremlin, she still translated for him.

 _So, Pidge, what’s your favorite mural?_ He gestured to the room, and Pidge paused, thoughtful.

_They’re all beautiful. It’s hard to choose a favorite, but I’d have to say… the fox, in the forest._

Hunk nodded. _My favorite is the earth, with the crystals._

 _Mine's the dragon,_ Keith added.

Hunk turned to him. _What’s yours, Lance?_

Hmm… Lance turned around on his stool, scanning the room. Like Pidge had said, all of them were beautiful; forest, falcon, dragon, earth, ocean. But… _I think the ocean one._

Keith smiled, softly. _Guess I should’ve guessed we’d all have different favorites, given on how we can’t even agree on a pizza topping._

Pidge grinned. _You’ve got a point._

 _We’re definitely different people,_ Hunk said with a grin. _Just about the only thing we have in common is that we all go to the same school._ His expression soured as his mind drifted to something unpleasant. _And have some of the same teachers._

 _Oh, you mean like Prorok, that awful librarian? Or Sendak?_ Pidge signed, scowling.

 _Haggar,_ Lance grimaced in reminder of the counselor that had denied him chorus and condemned his brother. _Zarkon._

 _Iverson,_ Keith added, expression dark.

 _We have some real winners,_ Hunk said, nodding.

At the mention of Iverson, Lance tensed, thinking back to their earlier encounter. While he had expected Iverson’s response to _him,_ one thing that hadn’t sat quite right was his response to seeing Keith. What had he done that had ticked Iverson off like that? And while he knew asking would probably end up bringing up questions he didn’t want to answer, his curiosity got the best of him. _Speaking of Iverson,_ he signed, eyes locked on Keith, _What was he talking about this afternoon? What “discipline problems”?_

If it was possible, Keith’s expression got darker. _You guys know the spray-paint thing, right? Well, it was a bit more of a scandal amongst the higher-ups than anyone let on. Turns out Iverson really cared about my vandalism, and he took it on himself to prove I was the culprit. He even traced the spray paints back to Shiro, who almost got in trouble too. But I never admitted to anything, and no one saw me, so he wasn’t able to prove it was me. Ever since then his failure to catch me has been a thorn in his side. Basically, if he sees me step one toe out of line he’s going to try and flunk me again._

Both Pidge and Lance winced; Lance understood what it was like being on the wrong end of Iverson’s wrath. The fact that Keith never got caught was a point in his favor. Plus, that kept him from being expelled, which was definitely a good thing.

Keith started talking again, looking directly at Lance, and Pidge cringed as she started signing. _What about you? What happened between you and Iverson?_

Oh, quiznak.

Lance took a deep breath before replying; if Keith had shared his story, he might as well share his own. No matter how painful the memory was. _A few years back, I was taking a big exam with a bunch of other classmates. I didn’t even realize anything was wrong until everyone started staring at me and a teacher ushered me out of the room. Turns out, my phone had gone off; I had the vibrate off for whatever reason, but apparently it wasn’t on silent. I had forgotten to take it out of my jacket pocket; I hadn’t even noticed it was there, and I couldn’t hear them when they made the “hand over your phones” announcement. Naturally no one came over to ask me in sign language, or even ask again at a distance where I could read their lips._

 _I almost got in serious trouble, but a word from some higher-up let me off with a warning, because they said I couldn’t hear the announcement and therefore it wasn’t fair; but my test was still invalidated, and a couple of the kids sitting around me were also pulled for questioning. One was Iverson’s niece, who it turns out also had her phone on her. She got in trouble, and Iverson blames me. He even hunted down my various exam scores to rub then in my face, saying I’m an ‘academic screw-up’ and that I ‘don’t deserve my high-level classes’._ Lance grimaced. _He’s been a grade-A jerk to me ever since._

Hunk and Keith were both gaping at him. _What the hell, man? That’s not right!_ Hunk exclaimed, face set in an incredulous frown.

Keith’s scowl was as dark as his hair. _That’s even worse than what he did to me. At least I was almost flunked for something I_ did. _You didn’t do anything and almost got in major trouble._

_Yeah, well, I’m used to it._ _Apparently not being able to hear is a bigger crime than I ever thought._

_Ditto for not being able to see._

For a moment, despite the fact that Keith made horrible pizza choices, he felt united with the blind boy for the simple reason that they were both struggling against something they couldn’t control. He smiled slightly, and despite Keith’s blindness, he returned it. It wasn’t exactly a happy smile, but it was something new, and not entirely unpleasant.

It was just… different.

Pidge and Hunk seemed to sense the strange energy in the room, and Hunk hurriedly began to speaking to fill it. _But I mean, we have good teachers too._

Keith nodded. _Shiro, for one._

 _Allura,_ Lance added. Allura was more of an angel in disguise than a teacher, but he figured she counted.

 _Mr. Holt, too,_ Hunk said, glancing at Pidge, who smiled.

 _Yeah, my dad’s actually a pretty good teacher. Sure, he likes talking about government conspiracies, but I’m used to that by now. I'm honestly pretty sure he's right._ She paused, thoughtful. _Ms. Ryner’s really good; her lessons were always super interesting. And Mr. Slav is certainly… eccentric._

_Speaking of Ms. Ryner, how’s your guys’ project coming?_

Like a magnet, Keith and Lance’s gazed were drawn to each other. _Oh, right… the_ project… Lance knew there was something he had forgotten, or at least pressed to the back of his mind. _Whoops_.

Pidge waved her hand, getting his attention. _I’m guessing based on your stupefied expressions something has gone wrong, despite the fact that when you told me about it earlier you made it sound like everything was totally fine._

 _You may have something there_ , Lance replied with a wry smirk. _It’s possible we lost our lunch periods to work on it, and it's unlikely we’ll get them back soon._

He could practically hear Pidge’s exasperated groan as she pinched the bridge of her nose, as if warding off a headache brought on by Lance’s antics. Hunk had his eyebrows raised at Keith, whose face was a mixture of sheepishness and annoyance with himself for feeling that way.

 _What happened?_ Pidge signed, somehow putting across her long suffering, exasperated emotions like no one else could.

_We–uh, Keith–may have bugged Shiro and Allura. Like, electronically._

_And they noticed that?_ Pidge asked with a raised eyebrow. She knew him too well.

_I might have, uh, texted Keith’s phone. And it wasn't on silent. Who bugs a room with their phone not on silent, any ways?_

_Maybe someone who's blind? And misses it when it vibrates?_ Keith defended, Pidge translating. _We wouldn't have gotten caught if you hadn't texted me!_

Instantly Lance felt his temper flare. Despite the fact that he had been blatantly trying to pin it on Keith, when Keith did the same thing he couldn't help but retort. _If you hadn't had the hokey idea in the first place, we’d still be able to work on our bio project and wouldn't have glorified detention for who knows how long!_

_You said yourself that it was a great idea! You texted me so I could send the recording to you!_

_See! If you hadn't had the idea, I never would have texted you!_

_That barely makes sense!_

You _barely make sense!_

Pidge, who had been looking on the argument with a rather amused expression, suddenly stopped translating and interjected herself. _Okay, now you're at petty insults. I’ve got to intervene before you wreck your friendship, bio grade, and this meal. You earned yourself detention, congrats. Just going to lay it out there, it was a pretty bad idea and you're both paying for it. Now, what are you going to do about it?_

 _Argue pointlessly?_ Lance replied with a weak smile. The combined disapproving stare of Pidge and Hunk shut that down as quick as it came out. _Yeah, yeah, okay._ He reached his hand out past Pidge, towards Keith; he was going to be the bigger man in this argument. _Truce?_

Pidge said something to Keith, who grimaced before sticking his hand out as well. Lance grabbed it, and they shook.

 _There we go,_ Pidge said. _Props for acting your age for once, Lance._

He grinned, and then pulled out his ears and stuck out his tongue. _Pidge, I have five younger siblings. I don’t know what acting my age is._

 _Clearly,_ she said, rolling her eyes but with a fond smile.

Keith started speaking, and Pidge looked over at him, surprised. She shared a startled look with Hunk before signing. _So, what are we going to do? We won’t have enough class time, especially since we haven’t even started yet, and now we’ve lost our lunch periods._

Hunk chuckled. _Wow, being responsible? Getting over an argument with a handshake? Who are you and what have you done with my friend?_ Keith scowled and swatted him, but Hunk only grinned.

_Seriously, though._

Lance hummed quietly, the vibrations from it a comfort. Keith had a point; clearly they’d have to work outside of school, no matter how repulsive the idea of doing _schoolwork_ during his decidedly _not school time_ was. The only thing he could really think of was– _You want to come over to my house tomorrow to work on it? I’m sure my mom would love to have you over._

After the translation, Keith tilted his head and scratched at the back of his neck, looking at him strangely, like he couldn’t quite figure out if Lance was kidding or not. Slowly, he nodded. _Sure, I guess._

Pidge chuckled. _You’ll get to meet all of Lance’s seemingly adorable but really devil-children siblings. Lucky you._ Lance swatted her.

 _Excuse you, my siblings aren’t seemingly adorable devil-children–-they’re completely evil, mischievous gremlins who will not hesitate to steal your pillows or scheme their way into another dessert._ Lance signed it jokingly, grinning. He was only able to joke like that because of how completely untrue it was–and Pidge knew it, too. If there was one thing true about Lance McClain, it was how much he valued his family. _So they’re kind of like you, Pidge._

It was her turn to swat him, even though she knew his accusations were at least partially well-founded.

After listening to Pidge’s running commentary of their conversation with a half-grin, Keith turned to Hunk. _You’ll be okay if I go to Lance’s for a day?_ Something about his facial expression tugged at Lance’s heartstrings–Keith genuinely cared about Hunk, worrying even about leaving him alone for a day.

 _‘Course, buddy,_ Hunk grinned. _Actually, I have a meeting for a possible internship tomorrow, in the next town… I might stay the night over there, but if I come back I’ll be really late. I’d hate to leave you, but if you’re with Lance…_

Keith suddenly turned to him with an expression that was half hopefulness, half embarrassment. He fidgeted with his hands, itching his palm, before speaking. _Would you, uh, mind if I… stayed the night at your place?_ He cringed asking the question, as if it were some sort of humiliating secret and not an understandable request. Of course Keith would hate being left home alone–without his sight, and without anyone to talk to, it would seem a hundred times lonelier… and probably a whole lot spookier.

 _Of course,_ Lance said, smiling softly even though he knew Keith couldn’t see him. _But when you end up sleeping on my hard floor because between me and my five siblings there isn’t enough bed space for you, don’t come complaining to me._ He let the fact that they barely had enough beds between the seven of them go unspoken.

Keith returned the smile, though it was clear he was smiling out of gratitude instead of Lance’s stab at levity, because soon after he rolled his eyes. _Trust me, Lance, I’m such a restless sleeper I can guarantee you I’ll end up on the floor either way._

Hunk nodded. _I can agree with that. There’s a reason he gets bottom bunk, and it has to do with the fact I can’t sleep when my roommate flies through the air next to my head to smash into the ground._

Keith glared at him. _That was_ one time.

 _Yeah, because after that I gave you bottom bunk._ Lance couldn’t help but snort, Hunk and Pidge joining in. Keith sat stubbornly, his arms crossed, his bottom lip stuck out in what was unmistakably a little pout-–he looked like a put-out puppy, and Lance had to admit it was a little adorable.

Just a little.

Suddenly, the other three all reacted, turning to the oven, as Hunk pulled his oven mitts on. _Guess the pizza’s ready,_ Lance thought with a fair amount of trepidation. _Yippee._

 _Thank goodness,_ Pidge signed. _I’m starving, and my fingers are about to fall off with all of this translating._ Lance just rolled his eyes.

 _Okay,_ Hunk began, Pidge still signing despite her complaints, _I’m going to set the three pizzas out. All slices are fair game, but leave the crusts for after–that way we can tell how many pieces everyone ate._

Lance raised his hand and waggled his fingers in the air, like an impatient school kid. _Can we have something to wash this vile devil-fruit pizza down with?_

Hunk glanced over a Pidge, having a silent conference. She shook her head, barely perceptible, and Hunk nodded. _Everyone gets one glass of water. Nothing more._

 _What?!_ Lance signed, eyes widening. He was surprised he didn’t fall off his stool, with the level of shock and betrayal he was experiencing. _How can I be expected to choke this down without something to drown out the taste?_

Pidge, Hunk, and Keith simultaneously rolled their eyes; clearly they weren’t taking this as seriously as Lance was. _That’s kind of the point, Lance,_ Pidge signed.

Lance shuddered. What had he gotten himself into?

Hunk set the pizzas out in front of them, and it was all Lance could do not to gag at the sight of pineapple poisoning his perfectly fine ham pizza. Pidge was watching him with an amused expression on her face, probably laughing internally at his pain. The traitor. If she hadn’t agreed with Keith they wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

After Hunk set the glasses of water before them, much to Lance’s distaste, he started counting off. _Three… two… one… start!_

Keith and Pidge started in immediately, determined to win (because of their own competitiveness or the promise of dessert, Lance wasn’t sure). Hunk also dug right in, after frowning down at the pizza as if it was disappointing his gourmet tastes. Lance, however, could only look down in revulsion as the others finished one slice, two.

Hunk glanced over at Lance and elbowed him. The message was clear: _Start eating or we’re not going to win._ Lance just grunted.

Keith looked over at him, an insufferable smirk on his face; he clearly had heard Lance’s grunt and knew exactly what it meant. He didn’t have to say a word, oddly enough. Just seeing that smirk on his face as he ate a third slice was enough to spur Lance into competitive action. No way was he letting Keith one-up him, especially not at _eating pizza._

He reached down and picked up a slice with a low amount of pineapple on it, and decisively devoured it. If he ate fast enough, he might be able to take away the other two’s lead… plus, the less time the pizza spent on his tongue the less likely he was to taste the offending fruit.

Lance ate two more in quick succession; a quick crust count showed that they were only two slices behind, with a whole pizza still left. If they could just make up for Lance’s original hesitance–

One thing Lance had forgotten, though, was that Hunk could pack away food faster than just about anyone. Soon they were equal… and then one ahead… and then Lance was reaching for the last slice…

And then a black-gloved hand came out of nowhere and smacked his hand away. He was was so stunned he didn’t move for a moment, allowing Keith a chance to dart toward the slice, but Hunk covered for him and swatted Keith’s hand in retaliation. He looked up at the blind boy’s startled, somewhat annoyed expression with fond amusement before going into the grab the last slice–only to find that it was gone.

Lance and Hunk both looked at Pidge in horror as she calmly ate the final piece of pizza, tying their score again. She slowly finished it, took a long drink of water, and let out a satisfied sigh. _Well, you hams,_ she signed, _how’s it feel to lose to us unsavory types?_

 _First off, you didn’t_ win. _We tied,_ Lance signed stubbornly. No way was Pidge taking credit for more than she actually did. _Second, I’m positive you cheated. No way you and Keith could tie with me and Hunk in a pizza eating contest. He’s an eating machine!_

_I’d say that too, if it wasn’t for the fact that it took you five minutes to psych yourself up._

_Just because I needed to pray to the pizza gods and beg my forgiveness doesn’t mean you should’ve taken advantage of me!_

_In fact, I’m pretty sure if Keith hadn’t turned on your competitive edge, you wouldn’t have eaten any at all._

Lance was about to retort, except he knew Pidge was probably right. It wasn’t until Keith looked at him with that insufferably smug grin that he threw caution to the wind and started eating. Thinking back on it, the pizza hadn’t actually been too bad… but he was sure that was just because his mind blocked out the horrible trauma to protect him. No way could his tastebuds condone pineapple on pizza. Pidge might be a traitor, but his own tastebuds weren’t.

 _But still!_ Lance protested. _What are we even supposed to do about a tie? No way in hell is there going to be a rematch._

 _Don’t worry, Lance,_ Hunk said with a grin. _I don’t have any dough left. We can’t physically have a rematch. Your tastebuds are safe._

_Thank God. But what are we going to do?_

_Split the prize?_ Hunk suggested. _I did make enough for everyone, given that we weren’t exactly planning this contest._

While Lance didn’t particularly like the idea of splitting the dessert, it was better than eating more pineapple pizza, or having another contest that Lance could hypothetically lose. He nodded. _Yeah, I guess._

Pidge and Keith nodded as well. _That works._

_Okay then. We’ve still got a bit until the dessert’s done, so in the meantime let’s try and have a conversation that doesn’t degenerate into another all-out taste war._

Lance grinned. _I don’t know, Hunk. Our odds aren’t very good, not with those two._

Pidge rolled her eyes. _Ditto._

 _Arguing about food, while one of my passions, is probably not what we need right now,_ Hunk said, and Pidge sat up, struck by a thought.

 _Actually, I do have a question I’d like to ask. You two are working together in bio, right?_ Lance and Keith both nodded, curious where this was going. _How are you guys communicating?_

Lance waited for Keith to start talking, but he nodded at Lance, signaling him to start. _Well, I had the idea to use google translate? So Keith wrote and I just typed it and clicked the little volume button. It’s a bit convoluted but it worked?_

Hunk looked up from fiddling at the oven. _Why don’t you guys just use Morse code? I know Keith knows it from that military boarding school he got kicked out of… er, sorry Keith._ Keith just shrugged, indifferent. _But it’s pretty easy to learn. Lance could tap it out so Keith could hear it, and Keith could tap it on Lance’s arm. Or Lance could tap it on Keith’s arm, whatever works better._

Lance looked at Hunk like he had just discovered the cure for cancer. How had they never thought of that? _Morse code_ , duh! He kind of felt embarrassed by the whole thing… he thought of typing his thoughts into a translator so it could speak them aloud for him but he hadn’t thought of _Morse code?_

Actually, that kind of sounds like something he would do. But _still._ And judging from the surprised look on Keith’s face, he felt the same way.

 _Oh. That would work,_ Keith said.

_Yeah, it would. I actually learned Morse code when I was younger–my little sister thought it was really interesting for a while and I grabbed a book from the library and taught her and myself. I don't remember all of it but I know quite a bit._

Pidge chuckled softly. _I remember that. Rica thought it was such a cool thing, to communicate through tapping. She didn’t talk for days, just used Morse. It was honestly pretty endearing._

Lance mock gasped. _Hold the phone._ _Pidge? Thinks my siblings are endearing? The pineapple pizza must have turned your brain!_

She rolled her eyes. _Yeah, yeah. But it really was. You still remember Morse?_

 _I’m surprised_ you _don’t–you had to communicate with her, too._

Pidge just shrugged. _I never got really into it. I only really understand two languages–English and binary. And ASL, of course._

Keith reached out, palm up, his meaning clear. Lance placed his hand into it, and Keith began tapping. A long, two shorts, followed by three longs… he kept tapping, until Lance slowly formed the question in his mind: _Do you get this?_

Lance switched their hand positions so Keith’s was on top. _Yeah,_ he tapped in reply, and Keith grinned. He found himself grinning back–his knowledge of Morse was coming back to him. Hunk’s idea would actually work! Whatever embarrassment he was feeling at not thinking of that originally was quickly tamped down by the feeling of success. He gently tugged his hand away to sign. _Thanks, Hunk! This’ll save us a lot of trouble._

Hunk smiled warmly. _No problem, buddy._

Suddenly, he turned, and Lance realized a sweet smell was floating from the oven. Based on Keith and Pidge’s intrigued expressions, it was finally time to discover what Hunk’s elusive dessert was, even if he had to share it with the pineapple pizza-endorsers. He was practically salivating at the thought of what edible ecstasy he was about to experience. Even Keith looked curious, and he had to have had all of Hunk’s dishes before.

Hunk turned from the oven with a pan clasped in his oven mitts. It looked like chocolate chip cookies mottled with brownies, like a chocolate calico of deliciousness. It smelled like heaven on earth, and Lance was guessing it tasted like it too. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t caused for a rematch–if he’d lost, it would have been painful. From the looks on everyone else’s faces, they were feeling the same way. Even Hunk regarded his brookies with relief.

He took a knife and cut them into manageable squares, and distributed them all on napkins. There was an even amount–everyone got four, and by the time the last one was handed out, Lance was practically salivating. Pidge was staring down at hers, eyes wide, deeply inhaling; she had had a few brownies before, but clearly the oven-fresh dessert was on a whole new level.

Hunk put the pan in the sink and picked up a square. He raised it to the center, nudging Keith, and they all mirrored him, like they were toasting with the desserts. He said something that Lance didn’t catch because Pidge’s hands were full, and then as one they all took a bite.

And another bite. And another bite.

Man, they were _so good._ Not that Lance was expecting any less, but _man._ _MAN._

Soon, all of the squares were gone (well, Lance had actually saved one to split between his siblings when he got home, despite Pidge making a grab for it), and the four of them sat around the counter in quiet contentment. Lance felt the warm, sleepy feeling that came from eating lots of good, warm food, and it was accentuated by being with his friends. He guessed the others felt the same way, based on the contented expressions on their faces.

After a couple of minutes, however, Lance had to interrupt the pleasant silence. _Where’s your guys’ bathroom? All the water I drank trying to rinse out the pineapple taste, well, it…_

 _No need to continue, Lance,_ Pidge cut off, looking like she was regretting being his translator. _They said it was just down that hall and to the left._

Lance nodded his thanks before walking over, down the hall. He was curious; he had never seen any of the other rooms in their apartment, and he wondered if Keith had painted them like the main room. In which case, they were going to be beautiful.

Despite being prepared for the sight of something wonderful, he couldn’t help himself from gasping when he walked into the room.

It was an _ocean._ A beautiful, vibrant ocean that pulsed with bright corals and fish and plants. It pulsed with _life._ The entire scene reminded him of when his parents took him snorkeling when he was much, much younger, years before his deafness. He walked over to the toilet, slowly, gaze still on the walls around him. When he looked down, he laughed.

There was a mermaid next to the small trash can against the wall. It had a scarlet, shimmering tail, and its human half looked exactly like Keith, albeit with gills. _Mermaids,_ Lance thought, shaking his head with a grin on his face. _Who’d have thought Mullet liked mermaids, too?_

After he finished washing his hands, he looked around the room one more time before exiting into the hallway again. There was another door, partially opened, to what Lance guess was the bedroom–would it also have a mural? He couldn’t resist a look, so he poked his head through the door.

Even with the lights off, Lance could clearly tell it was an African savannah, with a pride of lions perched on a rock formation. They each had seemed to have a different personality, despite simply being a still painting of a big cat. One looked more aggressive, one looked more curious… there was one with oddly kind eyes, another sitting almost cockily, a lion with her head held high, one that sat attentively next to her with intelligent eyes, and one that just looked… rather done, if a lion could look done with it all. They were all artfully done, and left Lance wondering. Did Keith have any more murals like this? Or paintings lying around? As far as Lance could tell, there were only three rooms in their apartment, but Keith didn’t seem the type to let physical barriers stand in his way.

He walked into a scene of friendly conversation and laughter, and smiled wistfully. It was good to see his friends enjoying themselves… he just wished he could hear their enjoyment. Not being able to hear laughter was one of the worst things about going deaf. He missed the sound of laughter so much. It was one of the things he prided himself on creating in other people, and while he still did, there was still something lacking that he knew he would never have again.

Pidge looked up at the sound of his arrival (which he assumed there was–who knew, maybe he had turned into a soundless ninja?), and smiled at him. He could feel his mouth curving into an involuntary smile–if anyone could distract him from his own thoughts, it was Pidge. She seemed to have a sixth sense for it, making up for Lance’s missing one.

When he sat back down, Pidge and Hunk were still talking–based on what he could gather from their lips, something about physics–but Keith was looking at him, head tilted curiously. Lance could guess what he was asking, and began tapping on the counter. _They’re really good. I love the ocean one._

Keith smiled. Instead of tapping out a message on Lance’s hand, he just patted the table; while Lance couldn’t hear it, he could see the pattern. _Thanks. The mermen were fun to paint._

_Men? Plural?_

_Yeah. Hunk’s in there, too. Behind some towels._

Lance grinned. _I see. Your merman gets to be right in the middle of things, while Hunk’s is hiding behind a towel?_

Keith flushed, his eyebrows lowering indignantly. _I–no, I just–he doesn’t–_

 _Relax,_ Lance interrupted, and Keith’s hand slowly halted. _I was just joking._ He paused, but Keith still didn’t move, as if sensing there was something else he wanted to add. _Do you have… any others? Paintings, I mean?_

Keith seemed to go into himself for a moment, before replying slowly. _Yeah. I do._

Before Lance could say anything else, Keith turned to Pidge and Hunk, his hand tapping along with his words. _I’ll be right back–just want to show Lance something._

Hunk nodded, and Pidge turned to Lance with a raised eyebrow, but didn’t say anything, and then Keith had gotten off his stool and tugged Lance through the door. He was tempted to ask where they were going but decided against it. He would find out soon.

Keith had let go of his arm (a warmth Lance was most definitely not missing), and was now leading him up the stairs. _That’s interesting. Where else would he paint, beside his apartment?_

A few seconds later, when they emerged on the roof, he got his answer. It was just light enough to see by, the sun having started to set but only enough to cast warm colors in the sky. And in the middle of the cold, grey concrete, lit up by the fading rays of the sun, was one of the most breathtaking things he’d ever seen.

It was a phoenix: a glorious flaming bird winging its way through a purple–hued sky, beak open in jubilation, its sapphire eyes sparkling with an inner light. It truly looked as if it was about to soar out of the concrete into the world, and the world would be a better place because of it. The strangest thing was that it reminded him of something–of what, he couldn’t remember, but he did find himself humming a tune to a song he couldn’t place.

Keith lightly brushed his arm, and Lance realized he had stopped dead in his tracks. The blind boy walked forward, beckoning him, as he crouched down next to the mural on the floor. Lance followed, hesitant as if worrying he was somehow going to ruin it just by walking close.

 _Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve wrecked something by being close to it,_ Lance thought bitterly, and, try as he might, he couldn’t stop his next thought from slipping through his carefully constructed wall.

_My family, for one._

And then he choked on his own spit–he suddenly knew what he had been humming, and why this mural had brought it to mind.

His mother’s song, that she had written for his dad all those years ago, that she had sung to him as a lullaby when he was an infant–it tied seamlessly in with this masterpiece before him. It was like Keith had drawn it looking at the lyrics, which was impossible. The paper that his mother wrote it on hadn’t seen the light of day in many, many years, not that Keith could even see it in the first place.

No… it was just a coincidence, one that had his heart in his throat like he was about to choke on it.

He hummed, shakily, knowing it probably sounded like shit but not caring, to the tune he knew so well. Staring at the painting made it feel more real, somehow, and even though he had never seen anything like it in his life it brought him back to now-foreign times.

Its piercing blue eyes reminded him of one person’s, a person he had struggled hard to forget, to put behind him. But now, with his mother’s song resting on his tongue and deep cobalt eyes seeming to stare straight through him, it was hard not to.

He didn’t even realize it until he felt his mouth moving and his vocal cords working, but he had started to sing. Slower, quieter, and sadder than it usually went, and probably shakier, but it was still his mother’s song.

_Shoot for the moon, reach for the stars, write your own tune, the future is ours_

_Ours for the taking, if we just try, our future is waiting, waiting for us to just fly_

_So spread your wings, fly to the sun, the crowing bird sings, the future’s begun_

_And when the sun sets, ending the day_

_Never forget_

_Tomorrow’s not far away_

_Not far a–away…_

As his voice hitched, twin points of warmth formed–one a hand on his shoulder, the other hot tears clouding his vision. He couldn’t look at Keith, not in this state, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, either. He gently leaned into the other boy’s touch, barely acknowledging him. But the slight response was enough and Lance knew it–he rarely, if ever, accepted comfort. From anyone. Something about being up here, on this darkening rooftop with a beautiful mural, his only company another boy and his own frightened memories, compelled him to lean into Keith. Keith felt warm; he felt safe. And Lance suddenly found he craved that warmth.

And he also found that though he tried to casually blink his tears away, they only formed hot rivers down his cheeks as he started to cry. He couldn’t stop himself from being wrenched back into his memories.

His papa, singing with his mother around the kitchen, both grinning and laughing as they danced together, eyes sparkling. Lance had been so young then, but it was one of his most vivid memories–it was a tangible time of happiness. His papa’s sapphire blue eyes as they leaned down over Carlos’s crib, shining with inner pride. The same pride, through startling eyes never dulled by time, over and over, at every one of his performances, every one of their report cards, at the twins’ birth, at his wife as she sang through their hard times and good times alike. Pride that still shown, albeit duller, from tired eyes at Izzy and Nico’s births. At their various accomplishments.

Pride that Lance had never seen directed at him again… not after his diagnosis, after his hearing started to go.

The light had left their father’s eyes, and Lance had never seen it rekindled.

He cried for that light. He cried for the proud father he knew. He cried for his siblings, his mother, and, selfishly, himself. He cried because his father abandoned him for something he had no control over. He had left him, because he could no longer hear. He had left them all.

And Lance hated him for it.

He didn’t know when his tears of sorrow melted into tears of fury, but they all burned equally down his cheeks. The pain in his chest felt tangible, like some wild beast was tearing at his insides to be let out. He couldn’t breathe, and choked on his sobs as he struggled for air. It all hurt. Too much. His thoughts, his memories, his chest, his lungs, his heart. They burned like his tears had scarred his cheeks and then sank deeper.

It was all too much, too much, a knife dragging through a wound that had never healed. Scars that he had tried to harden being reopened, bleeding freshly as furious tears down his face. Every moment that passed he felt as a stab in the heart, because it was another moment his family went broken. Another moment _he_ went broken.

He wasn't sure if he could ever be fixed.

But slowly, ever so slowly, he felt himself calm down. It became easier to breathe, and he greedily gulped down the brisk night air. Despite the slight wind, he wasn’t cold–now he noticed the warm hand rubbing circles into his back. As if by instinct, he curled further in on himself and leaned even closer into Keith’s touch. He might have thought the contact was too personal if Keith hadn’t just seen him cry his eyes out–Lance never cried in front of _anyone._ If there was one thing Lance had learned early to control, it was his emotions.

They had gotten away from him tonight. He wasn’t quite sure what did it, but he had cried harder than he had in a long, long time. In front of _Keith,_ no less.

But as the other boy rubbed comforting circles into his back, Lance found he didn’t really mind.

There was a few long minutes of stillness before Keith removed his hand from Lance’s back and placed it into his palm, and began tapping. He seemed hesitant, as if he was poking an animal in a cage and he wasn’t sure if it was a bear or a bunny.

 _Are–are you okay?_ Night had finally fallen, and although Lance could barely make out his face, based on the slight tightening of his fingers Keith had winced. _I mean–_

Lance reached out and stilled his hand. _No, no. It’s fine._ I’m _fine. I just… remembered something._

 _Was it about that song?_ Again, his fingers stiffened, like he was worried he had crossed an invisible line. _You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to._

Lance closed his eyes and breathed slowly in. Normally, he would never tell anyone anything about his past. It had taken Pidge months to pry everything out of him.

But… sitting next to Keith, his warmth blazing like a bonfire in the cool night air, the ghost of his tears still lingering on his cheeks, something felt different. The boy had just seen him cry like the world was ending, and he was still being kind and quiet and gentle, more gentle than Lance had ever seen Keith before. If Lance was ever going to accept his own past, he had to start by being able to share it. And Keith sounded like as good a place as any.

Better, even.

Lance sighed, a slow, shaky breath, before replying. _Yes. Your mural reminded me of it. It was… my mother’s song. She sang it to me all the time._

Now came the hard part. _But she wrote it for my father–they sang it to each other, especially when times were hard. It reminded them–us–to have hope. She stopped singing it, though. She stopped singing altogether, after my father left._

He felt Keith stiffen against him; clearly he hadn’t been expecting this confession. But he slowly relaxed, and used his other arm to resume rubbing Lance’s back. It was a simple gesture, but Lance appreciated it nonetheless–it gave him something to focus on besides the lump forming in his throat.

_I was just… remembering him. Your phoenix’s eyes remind me of him–shining sapphire blue. I was remembering when they shone with pride. He was a musician, you know. He was the one who taught me how to sing. He was why I grew up loving it._

Lance swallowed hard, trying to rid his chest of the emotion that was clawing up his insides, and tried to focus on Keith’s unwavering presence. _But then I got sick… really sick. The doctors said I was going to make it, but I would lose my hearing. Completely. And my papa… he didn’t like that. His son, who he had practically raised on chords and notes and songs, wouldn’t be able to hear anymore._

_The day I was released from the hospital, he left. He left me and my mom and my five siblings. He left because I couldn’t hear anymore. He left because he couldn’t take that idea, because he couldn’t stand it._

Dimly Lance realized he was shaking, though from what emotion he wasn’t sure.

 _Well, I couldn’t stand it either. I couldn’t hear, my family had to learn a new language to even communicate with me, and we had been left alone with a mortgage and a run-down business. He_ left _us. He_ left _us._

He tucked his head into his chest as he tapped out his final sentence. _We have never been whole since._

And then he had warm arms around him, pulling him in. It was an awkward hug, the hug of someone who wasn’t used to consoling others, but it was comforting and in Keith’s arms Lance felt safer than he had in a long time. He buried his face into the crook of his neck, and let his emotions shake his body. But he didn’t cry.

As he nestled into Keith’s warm embrace, soft hair brushing against his cheek, he knew one thing for sure.

_No more tears tonight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you didn't find that pine-appalling, and that I wasn't too much of a ham.  
> (Oh, also... the inspiration for the pineapple pizza bit was at least partly "call me, beep me"–seriously great fic, you should check it out if you haven't already.)  
> And thank you to pepperjelly and Loving this story for the morse code idea–it's really going to make dialogue flow better in the coming chapters!


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